


Far Too Young To Die

by ThatsWildPatrick



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Angst, Attempt at Humor, But medicated zombies, Discrimination, Established Andy Hurley/Joe Trohman, Established Frank Iero/Gerard Way, Eventual Smut, Fluff, God Complex, Hate to Love, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, I promise, Inspired by In the Flesh, Kinda, Lynching, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Multi, Necrophilia, Not Really Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Character Death, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Relationship(s), Religion, Suicide, Swearing, Zombies, am I contributing to the skeleton king yet, but it's not, halloween fic, it sounds really dark, it'll make sense I promise, technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-08 19:38:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 71,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12260796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatsWildPatrick/pseuds/ThatsWildPatrick
Summary: When Pete finally decided to accept the sweet release of death, he hadn't really expected to deal with the consequences of his actions.He'd either expected white fluffy clouds, angels with halos, and pearly gates. Hellfire, demons and eternal screaming. Or, the same darkness he'd been in before he'd been born.No, he'd expected to be long gone by the time any tears were shed, but sometimes, just sometimes, Pete had the worst luck imaginable.





	1. Crosses All Over The Boulevard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh I suck at summaries, but anyway, hey guys and welcome to fic number 6!
> 
> Now, after a lot of brainstorming for the idea that won the vote, I came to the conclusion that it's just not ready. Since I really wanted to write something good, not something half-baked in any way, I've decided to go ahead with the fic that lost by one point, and here we are!  
> I'm really sorry if this disappoints anyone, but fic A will definitely be written at some point.
> 
> With that being said, I feel like I should outline a couple of things:
> 
> 1\. This will not be super sad. I promise. I really can't handle writing something super sad again, so I'm gonna keep this as much in 'dark comedy' range as I can! (A/N: Okay, might not have succeeded here lol)
> 
> 2\. I know this chapter is about zombies, but this will be the only actual 'zombie' chapter, things will get much more interesting soon.
> 
> Now that that's been cleared up: I really hope you enjoy this story! The premise is taken from an amazing British tv show called 'In The Flesh', that was sadly cancelled, but the idea was just so interesting I decided to rework it a little!
> 
> I really hope you all like this one, and I'll promise to do my best here! Thank you all so much for your time and support, it really means a lot xx <33

 

Patrick had never needed an alarm clock.

 

It wasn't that he had some miraculous ability to wake up on time, no, if anything it was the exact opposite of that; If left alone in the house, curled up in bed and warm under the covers, Patrick could sleep for entire weeks. His excuse had always been that he was making up for sleep time he'd lost back when he was a baby, but his mom had never really bought that one.

 

Despite his extremely impressive hibernation abilities, Patrick had never needed an alarm.

 

Because what actually woke him every morning, was the smell of whatever mom was cooking for breakfast; It would drift from the kitchen in wisps, before slowly flooding the house with smells that made stomachs ache with hunger, and that forced starving minds to stir awake.

 

That morning, his mom had been cooking scrambled eggs and bacon.

 

Patrick's eyes fluttered open as the scent pushed past his nostrils, and despite the rumbling complaints his stomach was making, he pressed his face into his pillow, trying to chase after the sleep that had left him in the dirt.

When it refused to return, and when his stomach gave a particularly violent growl, Patrick exhaled deeply, eyes rolling under closed eyelids.

He pushed himself out of bed, not bothering to straighten the covers as he made a beeline for the dresser.

Patrick had never been the most stylish guy, he supposed. He stared down at the messy dresser packed with odd, bright graphic shirts and even a few sweaters.

With another sniff at the air, that was steadily smelling more and more like well cooked breakfast, he fished up some red and black stripy sweater that was almost garish enough to make him wince. From there, it was pretty easy; Jeans and sneakers, along with a hat. He also hitched his school bag onto his shoulders, and fetched his dark blue rain coat that totally clashed with a red striped shirt.

Patrick shook his head at himself and sighed. He couldn't bring himself to care too much about not dressing like a runway model or something. There was more to life than clothes.

 

 

By the time he'd reached the kitchen, four plates were served up, and his mom was in the process of spooning a healthy clump of yellowy scrambled eggs onto one of them.

His mom, Patricia, glanced up at him from the plate, face splitting into a kind grin that held sympathy and pity behind it. "Good morning, sweetheart." Patrick knew she tried; Nothing about her pity was malicious, but it still made Patrick's chest ache.

With a tired, slightly awkward smile, Patrick shuffled down into a chair, fetching up his fork as he idly twirled it over strips of bacon. "Morning mom."

He dropped his eyes to the plate of breakfast in front of him, ignoring the clattering of a frying pan in the sink as his mom quickly dried her hands. She moved back towards the table, shifting to sit down before giving Patrick a comforting rub on the shoulder. Patrick tried a smile again, and it seemed to sate his mom, who nodded to herself and sat down beside her son.

 

A few moments of silence passed before gazes hitched up again, at the sound of shuffling footsteps. Megan paced into the kitchen, followed by Kevin.

 

His sister was the epitome of a goody two shoes, but, Patrick kinda was too, so he had no place to criticise. Her hair was perpetually tied back neatly, strands completely trapped in a black hair tie that she'd never misplace. Sensible dresses, neat shoes. Daisies on crisp navy, shiny brown leather. A leather satchel, a clean room, and excellent grades. She was their parents' greatest success story.

 

Kevin was the opposite of that. Where Patrick sat in the middle of both extremes, Kevin had completely tipped towards the lazy and messy side of the spectrum. Instead of waltzing into the kitchen looking as though he was going to a Preparatory school, Kevin looked more like someone with a constant hangover.

That reddish brown hair that ran in the family was stuck up in cowlick strands, and powdery blue eyes that matched his siblings' were flanked by dark, purple bags that indicated just how long he'd stayed up, and just how little he'd actually slept.

A dumb black hoodie with leaf printed sleeves and a white number on its back. Jeans and sneakers like Patrick's, only a little more worn and dirty. And an old Nike rucksack that now sported a busted zip after one too many throws on the ground.

As Kevin slumped forwards, looking more dead than alive, Patrick would wager he'd either been playing video games, watching movies, or doing something unsavoury on illicit websites.

 

Megan took a graceful seat next to their mother, whilst Kevin took the one that sandwiched him between an older sister and a younger brother, all packed around the round table like sardines.

 

Patrick sat in the middle of it all; He was quiet enough to be excused for staying out with his friends. He was polite enough to be excused for Cs at school. He was good enough. Not the best, but enough. And Patrick didn't mind that at all; He didn't mind waltzing through life being lukewarm, it was really his best option.

 

"How did you sleep?" Their mom gave the newcomers a soft smile, eyes kind and sparkling as Megan piped up first. "Very well, actually." There was a slight look fired Kevin's way, but the middle brother ignored it, and instead, opted to hunch over his plate with a shrug. "Pretty good I guess."

His mom turned her gaze on Patrick, eyebrows raised in a repetition of the silent question. The youngest brother cleared his throat with a nod that wasn't really an answer, before quickly averting his eyes in favor of his glass of orange juice.

Patrick opted to sip back tiny mouthfuls of the juice in order to avoid any more questions; Breakfast conversations were always awkward.

Patrick wrinkled his nose as their mom and Megan launched into an easy conversation on schoolwork that Kevin was already hunching his back at.

The youngest brother just tried to focus on the bright juice under his nose. It didn't help that much however, he didn't like orange juice all that much; It always started out sweet, before it faded into a tangy bitterness that stuck to his tongue and made his spit thick.

 

 

As soon as the glass was empty, Patrick half-heartedly ate sparse forkfuls of the eggs and bacon, all while keeping his ears locked away from his mom's conversation with Megan.

By the time metal prongs were scraping at white ceramic with quiet taps, time had rolled on just enough for Patrick's exit to be justified, but, as his eyes found his mother's and sister's full plates, he realized that leaving right now might coax a cacophony of questions he was  _not_  prepared to deal with right now.

It was always best to wait until mom was washing the plates, and until when Megan was pulling on her tan duffle coat. Distractions were the key to French exits.

 

Patrick felt a gaze flicking at him like a fire spitting, and as he shifted his eyes over to catch the culprit, he only found Kevin giving him wide, egging on eyes. Kevin was a good distraction too. As long as both brothers left all at once, the questions or offers for more eggs could be mostly avoided.

 

Kevin's hand balled into a fist under the table, and he rested it on his thigh as he counted out three seconds with tiny nods. As soon as three pale fingers were up and straight, both brothers jolted up from their chairs and left the kitchen with a flurry of footfalls and yells of thanks and farewell. They pushed out of the door, ears heavy with Megan's annoyed sigh and their mom's call of ' _Oh- okay- Have a good day, I love you!_ '.

They paused for a second as they stuttered to a stop outside of their two meter long driveway, and in somewhat awkward, yet somewhat grateful silence, both brothers nodded at each other, before breaking off into their own paths for school.

 

Patrick took the normal route. The route everyone else took; The winding sidewalk that would lead him from his home towards a bricked school, and on the way, he'd have to traverse and brave buses, cars, and hordes of shuffling friends who spoke in droning morning voices.

 

Kevin took the hill instead. Green grass, trees in the distance, and silence all around for miles. That was a perk of living in a small town: Silence.

 

When Patrick's parents had decided to pack up from Glenview and move to some town in Kentucky, Patrick hadn't been best pleased. And neither had Megan and Kevin, now that he thought about it.

 

Megan had pleaded with their parents, explaining and reeling that small town education would get her nowhere in life.

Kevin just hated the idea of leaving Chicago- as well as his friends.

Patrick had hated leaving Chicago too; That was his city, his home. Where he'd grown up, where he'd spent the best times of his life. He hadn't had many friends to miss, but despite the combined begging and tantrums from their three children, Patrick's parents had sold their house and had left Chicago in the rearview mirror.

 

Both the move and the following divorce had made Patrick so angry. He'd despised Kentucky at first, he'd hated everything; From middle school to the new grocery store, he'd hated everything.

And then, one day, Patrick had been browsing a few books in Borders, when he'd overheard something interesting about music.

Some kid with curly hair had been talking to one in a hoodie, and after reeling off completely incorrect facts for five minutes, Patrick couldn't stand the misinformation any longer. It was very unlike him, but he interjected the conversation, offered a quick correction and he'd been on his way.

  
He didn't think much of it until the next day. He'd been at school, milling around the yard during lunch that he never participated in, when the curly-haired kid had approached him out of nowhere, and had started talking to him.

 

A brief, slightly stilted conversation later, and he'd learnt the kid's name was Joe. He seemed nice.

And then he'd found out Joe wasn't from Kentucky either- he was from Chicago too. He seemed awesome.

He started hanging out with Patrick despite his nervous protests, but it was only them for around a day, before Joe decided to introduce Patrick to his friends.

 

Patrick had been jittery the whole time Joe had been leading him to 'meet his friends'; He'd been picturing a haggle of kids nowhere as nice as Joe was, but he consoled himself with the reassurance that Joe wouldn't be friends with assholes.

 

But when they actually reached said friends, Patrick had been shocked silent. They were  _older_. Whoa. Now  _that_  had been crazy. They were from Chicago. Already a good start. But admittedly, they hadn't been what Patrick had been expecting.

 

One year older, Andy had been a mess of bushy hair, glasses and smart blue eyes; His voice had been soft and high, in complete contrast to his slightly imposing self.

And then there'd been Pete, two years older and  _pretty_. Shit, Patrick had already been under attack by the butterflies in his stomach at the first bright grin Pete gave him. 

Through controlling his emotions, or, more so keeping them behind an electric barbed wire fence, Patrick had managed to build actual friendships with the other three guys.

 

_Friendships_.

 

Yeah, absolutely  _insane_ , right?

 

A guy like Patrick,  _actually having friends_. It was like a real life Christmas miracle. Only, not at Christmas. And Patrick had been doubting if this was actually real life.

But, existential crises aside, Patrick had quickly grown to love his little town in Kentucky- although, it would never take Chicago's place in his heart.

 

Over the years, he'd grown even closer to the other guys, even despite the years that separated them. Even now, as they attended high school, they were still the closest of friends. Days spent loitering around town, messing on instruments together, or just watching scary movies, and Patrick had been happier than he'd been in a long time.

 

Patrick glanced upwards, eyes finding the school as he'd subconsciously walked the well worn path to the school; Hulking blocks of reddish brick, windows, and white slats, and seeing as it was a school day morning, it was absolutely flocked with packs of students.

With a sigh that always escaped him at the school, Patrick paced over to the place where he always met up with Pete, Joe and Andy.

A little nook outside of the science block that was ambushed by bushy, green trees; It was peaceful as somewhere in a high school could be, and as Patrick approached, he spotted two of his three friends standing by the white doors, locked in idle conversation.

 

"Hey Patrick."

 

Joe started with a nod and a smile...a smile that held that same pity his mom's had. Patrick tried a smile, stepping towards them and leaning on the wall with a quiet yawn of greeting. "Hey guys."

 

The conversation was brief, due to the bell's ring that cut across their words only a few seconds later. They all branched off with friendly smiles and unspoken words.

Patrick wasn't sure what the hell was wrong with everyone lately. Everyone looked at him with that irking sympathy. Patrick didn't need sympathy- fuck, nothing was wrong.

Patrick glared at the floor as he stomped over to Calculus, and as he joined the line with a furrowed brow, Patrick decided on his plans from 3:30 onwards.

 

He'd go visit Pete.

 

Pete always calmed him down, and god, Patrick would never miss an opportunity to hang out with him. He loved all the guys the same amount, but Pete was just...something else. Yeah, something else alright.

Patrick smiled determinedly and nodded to himself with perseverance on his face.

 

He'd go see Pete after school, and Pete would definitely wouldn't give him that smarmy, pitiful smile everyone else had today.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Was it weird to buy flowers for your best friend?

 

Probably? Probably not?

 

Patrick wasn't sure, he'd never had many best friends before; And even though he now had three, it was still a question that cracked through his mind every Monday as he stood in the flower store, watching the kindly lady wrap up a few white flowers that Patrick didn't know the names of. They smelled sweet and looked nice, that was enough for him.

When the lady announced the price, Patrick smiled and passed a few dollar bills into her palm, watching her tap at the register a little before handing him a receipt and his purchase.

He thanked her, head bobbing in a nod, before he left the quaint, sweet and petal strewn store, and instead, took to walking down towards where Pete was.

 

Back when Patrick had first tried bringing flowers, he'd been jittery the whole way. His eyes would shift nervously, his cheeks would flush red at any stares he received, and he'd spend most of the trip trying to hide the flowers with his bag. That little misadventure had ended up causing crushed, bruised petals and broken stems. Pete hadn't seemed to have minded though.

But despite Pete's silence on the state of the flowers, Patrick had decided to never try hiding the flowers again.

So every Monday morning that he paced down through the town, and then out into the steep hills to find Pete, he kept the bouquet in his fist without shame.

 

Okay maybe a little shame.

 

Well, that had only been at first, but after a while, people had stopped caring or giving him side eyed glances.

 

When Patrick finally reached the flimsy wooden gates, he gave a quiet exhale and paced forwards, pushing through them with his face set in stone.

 

It was really pretty here; Neat blades of green grass, meticulously placed flowers, whilst all of it was surrounded by tall, wide trees that hid everything behind them with the shadows of their leaves. Tombstones, crosses, angels- all carved in grey and white, placed in neat lines and marking out those that had been lost.

 

Patrick chewed his lip as he approached Pete, his heart thundered in his chest and his stomach squirmed painfully, twisting like a knot and writhing like a million snakes. Patrick was just as nervous as he had been the first day, and he suspected he'd always be that timid.

 

"Hey."

 

Patrick turned towards his best friend, smile small and watery as he gazed down at him.

That grey headstone was still so new; Devoid of spray paint and only marked with clearly carved words.

Maybe one day they'd start cracking away, but if Patrick could help it, it'd always be well kept.

The grass around it was neat, and at the foot of the stone was the bunch of flowers Patrick had brought last week. They were already wilting, and it made Patrick a little sad to look at.

With an awkward smile and a breathy laugh, Patrick crouched down and scooped the old bouquet up, before placing down the new white petaled flowers with a sigh.

Fingers fiddling at the soaked, tattered paper that surrounded the old flowers, Patrick chewed his lip and smiled down at the stone.

 

_In Loving Memory of_

_Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III_

_1979 – 1997_

_Aged 18 years_

_A beloved son_

_Sorely missed_

 

"Everyone uh...everyone's been looking at me...weird…" Patrick chewed his lip once more, feeling the irony taste of blood soak his tongue as the skin broke under the pressure of his teeth. "I bet uh...I bet you'd know what to do."

Patrick's laugh was breathless and miserable, but as he exhaled shakily with another nod, a rueful smile crossed his face. "You tell 'em to stop, probably."

His smile dropped into something sadder as his eyes grew teary. Patrick hated crying, even now, even after so many tears had been wasted on the grass under Pete's tombstone.

And yet, the tears slipped down his cheeks freely, and Patrick couldn't hold back the silent sobs that wracked his chest.

 

A few minutes of pitiful sniffling, and Patrick growled at himself, pawing away the tears and nodding down at the tombstone. "Well uh- I uh- I have some homework, and I...I gotta-" Patrick exhaled deeply, eyes falling closed for a moment.

 

Breathe.

 

Calm down.

 

It's okay.

 

Patrick opened his eyes once more, letting his damp eyelashes flutter open, and smiling down at the bump of new grass where Pete's casket was buried. "I'll see you later, probably, I uh- I…" Patrick nodded to himself one last time, before pacing away with shaky footsteps.

As much as Patrick tried to fool himself into thinking Pete wasn't dead, the truth was very different. Pete was in that wooden casket, submerged in the earth, and probably rotting away, being eaten by worms as he spoke. Patrick knew that, and nothing Patrick could do or say would bring him back.

Pete's death had left him angry, bitter, and harsher than before. It had steeled a stone callous over his soul, and while he wanted it gone, nothing would budge it away. Everything from church, therapy, friends- nothing had been able to fill that void Pete's death had left in Patrick.

 

Patrick hated thinking about it, so with a heavy heart, he shoved past the feeble wooden gates and paced home, leaving the graveyard behind him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick could never stay away for long. Hell, he'd sleep there if the groundskeeper wouldn't totally chase him out with a rake or something.

Hood over his hand, and hands buried in his pockets, Patrick paced through the wooden fence he could hardly see under the darkness of the night.

As he approached the actual boundary of where graves started popping up, Patrick pulled a flashlight out of his pocket and made a point of lighting up the ground.  
The grass glowed white with light, and as Patrick shifted forwards, all he could hear was his own pulse and breathing, and coupled with his eyes that shifted, trying to spot any other souls in the graveyard at such a late hour, a bundle of nerves had settled in Patrick's throat.

Patrick wasn't the biggest fan of nighttime, and he wasn't a graveyard enthusiast either- despite what people said.

 

Patrick liked visiting Pete, but that didn't mean being surrounded by buried corpses was his ideal Sunday afternoon, okay?

 

But as Patrick kept pacing forwards, he noticed something.

 

The graves were dug up.

 

His jaw fell open as his legs kept pacing forwards of their own accord. More holes, dark and deep, soil that had been disturbed roughly. Rips, tears, claw marks-  _what the hell?_  

Something about the sights sent a spark of panic through Patrick. Something old, something instinctual- something very real. His breathing grew more laboured as slow paralysing fear began taking root in his stomach, prompting goosebumps to pop up all over his skin.

 

But Patrick kept moving. He had to check Pete's grave- fuck, he needed to tell someone, he needed to-

 

Pete's name carved into stone caught his attention, and as he skidded to a stop in short grass, he aimed his flashlight down into the hole, eyes squinting down into it.

It was dark, and the smell of soil and rot overpowered his nostrils as he coughed into his sleeve, throat raw and spine aching with the effort.

 

Pete was gone- fuck, so many of them were gone. Shit, what kind of sick bastard would steal bodies? Oh god, what were they  _using_  them for? Patrick had to get home. He needed to find someone- he had to get home.

 

With a nod to himself, Patrick blocked everything else out of his mind and began bolting out of the graveyard, being careful to jump over and bob past the holes. Every time one of his ankles bent oddly, every time one of his soles  _almost_  skidded into a hole, Patrick yelped and whimpered. But with a snarl at his own clumsiness, Patrick furrowed his brow and kicked his legs speeds up a notch.

He'd never been the best runner, but that instinctual panic was fanning fires he hadn't even known existed.

Patrick pushed past the gates, feet meeting more solid dirt for a few moments as he darted down over the hill that led to his house.

Jumping down over rocky bumps and weak dips of burrows in the ground, Patrick's soles eventually met a concrete street once more. Everything was a blur, all the streetlights, the houses, the people- and then Patrick saw his house.

The lights were on, the windows and curtains glowing a pleasant, homely yellow that was the epitome of inviting. Red brick, white accents, small and cozy. His  _home_.

 

As he stuttered to a stop at the fence, Patrick's eyes caught something odd across the street.

 

A figure; Long blonde hair that looked brittle like straw, and filthy like a sewer. Her back was turned to Patrick, but her dress looked tattered and old. She was barefoot, and her feet were caked in soil, as well as her fingers.

 

Something about her made Patrick nervous.

 

With the quietest footsteps he could manage, Patrick backed into his house, but not without keeping an eye on the girl.

By the time the front door closed- and locked, Patrick made sure, the initial burst of his energy had died, and the strawberry-blonde was left panting against the wooden door, gasping for breath as his mom's voice rang in his ears faintly.

 

"Patrick- Patrick, sweetheart- where were you?" Patrick's mind blurred the voices, but with a pant, he turned around to face his mom- oh, and his dad. Weird, but not uncommon. His parents had remained civil with each other, and his dad could often be found at their house.

 

"Patrick? Honey-"

 

His mom, dad and Megan were sat at the table, all partaking in white mugs of coffee while having what looked to have been a classy conversation. Too bad Patrick was gonna ruin that with talk of grave robbers.

 

"There's- the graves, they're-"

 

"The graves- oh Patrick-" His dad shook his head for a moment, sighing softly as Patrick's mom quickly took the gauntlet, smiling kindly and sadly, all while leaning forwards a little, catching her son's eyes. "Sweetheart...it's been  _a year_  since your friend-"

  
Patrick was aware it had been a year, thanks very much. He wasn't stupid or deluded. Pete was dead. He was dead. Patrick knew that.

 

Patrick's badly hidden flicker of fury made her words fade, but Megan quickly stepped in where her parents had failed. "Patrick, you have to stop going there all the time- I mean,  _honestly_ -"  
  
"Listen- just listen-" Patrick stumbled forwards, eyes wide and serious. "The graves were dug up- I-I think there's a grave robber or something-"

 

"Oh Patrick-"

 

"I swear!" Patrick gaped with a scoff, shaking his head incredulously. Why would he lie about something like this? Really- what kind of sick fuck would lie about graves being disturbed? "I'm not lying- look, you need to call the- the police, or something- I'm telling the truth."

 

His parents glanced at each other dubiously, all while Megan sighed and sipped at her coffee with a look of tired disappointment. God, Patrick didn't understand them. Why did they think he was lying? He'd never lie about-

 

"I'll go talk to Dave." Patrick's dad rocked up from his chair, nodding at his son with a raised eyebrow. "You coming?"

 

Patrick nodded eagerly, quickly following his dad as he pulled a coat on and led his son outside, but not without a caring yell of warning from Patrick's mom.

 

When they reached the pavement, Patrick noticed the girl was gone.

 

That made him even more nervous, for some reason.

 

Biting his tongue and neglecting to mention the girl, Patrick followed his dad with his hands shoved into his pockets, all while ignoring the breathy, tired sighs his dad would give into the air occasionally.

Patrick didn't understand his parents' aversion to him visiting a friend's grave. Wasn't that a normal thing to do? Why did they shun him for it so much?

  
They paced towards Joe's house in the same silent stupor, and only a few minutes after his dad had left a sigh and a knock at the wooden door, Joe's dad poked through with a helpful smile. "Hey David."

With a nod, Patrick's dad smiled back and spoke up first, "Hey Dave- sorry to bother you, but-" He turned towards Patrick, raising an eyebrow. "Patrick had something to report."

Joe's dad, Dave Trohman, was the town's sheriff, and no matter how outlandish the case, he always tried to listen. That comforted Patrick a little bit, but under his own dad's dubious stare, Patrick started doubting what his own eyes had seen.

Dave's brow shot up too, and he quickly nodded with interest, "Go on, Patrick."

 

The boy let his dad have a subtle stare, before he shifted his eyes up to Joe's dad- who was quickly joined by his eldest son himself. "Hey Patrick, what's up?" Joe looked somewhere between concerned and curious, but Patrick only nodded as he reported his findings with the straightest voice he could muster. "Some graves have been dug up."

 

There was a collective stifled sigh, and Patrick could only ball his hands into fists. God, why did everyone have a problem with his journeys to the graveyard? Fuck, y'know what? Patrick was gonna start going  _three times_   _daily_ , just to spite everyone.

 

Joe's dad only nodded after some time. "Alright," He fetched a flashlight before heading back towards them and giving Joe a quick instruction. Pacing towards the sidewalk, Dave sighed and nodded into the night air, before nodding back at Patrick and his dad, motioning up over the hill with his head.

 

"Let's go see."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Oh my god."

  
The holes in the earth were all the proof the men needed, and Patrick was feeling very proud of himself.

Okay, maybe proud wasn't the correct feeling to have right now, but Patrick could be  _excused_. He'd been sneered at by just about everyone up until now, and seeing jaws drop in horror and shock was satisfying, or, more so- being proved  _right_  was satisfying.

 

"We- we need to-"

 

The words died as footsteps started crunching grass, and Dave quickly held his flashlight up, trying to cast the light a little further.

 

"Who's there?"

 

There was a groan, but- but it sounded more animal-like than human. It sent a shiver over Patrick's spine, and he really hoped he wouldn't hear it again.

Dave bristled for a moment, before nodding and David and Patrick, motioning them back. Patrick wanted to protest, but as his dad pulled him back from the graveyard's holes, he couldn't fight back too much.

And he argued even less when yet  _another_  groan came, puncturing the silence of the night.

 

"I said-  _Who's_  there?"

 

There was no answer that time, and for as much as Dave tried, the flashlight couldn't reach the groaning figure.

 

However, when a piercing scream rang out, over the hill and from the town- all thoughts of the groaning figure were discarded.

 

Dave turned, brow furrowing and mouth pulled straight as he paced away from the graves, squinting out over the hill. Patrick and David did the same, eyes straining against both darkness and distance, before-

 

Figures. Tiny like ants due to distance, but darting desperately, and all as the screams kept coming, getting louder and louder- and more frequent.

 

There was a silent glance between the adults, and in a second, the graveyard was forgotten. Patrick tried protesting; He dug his heels into the dirt, pulled at his dad's grip on his arm, yelled about the motherfucker that had dug up all the graves escaping- but it was all for nothing, and they were back in the town as quickly as they'd left it.

 

 

 

 

It was eerily quiet, and it made Patrick's skin crawl. But despite the thundering of his heart beating his ribs within an inch of their lives, Patrick bit his tongue and refrained from asking questions; There was no point to questions right now. Nobody knew what was going on.

Dave turned to David, eyes serious and brow deep. "David, get to your kids- lock the doors, alright?"

 

"But- what's-"

 

"Just do it." Dave's eyes grew worried and shifty, but he sighed and nodded. "I'm gonna make some calls."

 

Patrick's dad seemed on the edge of waterfalls of pleads and questions, but instead of arguing against the order, he gave a stiff nod and grabbed Patrick by the arm, marching him home with urgency.

 

 

 

"Listen to me, Patrick?" Patrick glanced up at his dad with wide eyes holding flickers of fear, but David could only smile ruefully at the sight, before exhaling shakily, glancing around at the shadows, and speaking again.

"When we get back, put chairs under the doors, tables against the windows- alright?" He stared down at his son seriously, "I don't know what's going on but..."

David's words sighed out again, and an unspoken pair of nervous glances and smiles cleared the awkwardness of the silence. So instead of forcing words that just wouldn't come, they walked the rest of the way home in silence, and the whole way, Patrick felt eyes on his back.

 

 

The moment they crossed through the door- before bolting it shut behind them, questions were being fired like careless bullets. David tried his best to explain through barricades- that were aided by his youngest son, but protested by his ex-wife and daughter.

 

"David- what has gotten into you- I swear- STOP-"

 

"Patrick- Dad- god, put the chair down!"

 

At all the arguing, Kevin thumped down the stairs and weakly glowered at the scene in the kitchen- before he noticed what was actually going on.

Chairs under door handles, tables blocking windows, and fabric vainly covering pieces of glass. Patrick holding a chair, David pushing a table, and all while Patricia and Megan stood in pure cluelessness with jaws hanging open and pouring with arguments.

 

"Okay...so...are you guys okay…?"

 

David pushed the table once more with a sigh, making sure it was steadfast before turning to his older son. "Kevin-"

 

A snarl cut off the words, and it was quickly followed by a weak thump at the door. Patrick's eyes widened as his Adam's apple bobbed desperately.

Holy fuck, it sounded like an animal- but an animal couldn't knock at a door like  _that_ -

 

"Stay away from it." David stared at Patricia seriously as she tried a move towards the door. As soon as she backed away, something scared flickering over her features, David quickly flicked the lights off, before widening his eyes at Patrick and nodding over to the kitchen drawers. Patrick understood immediately, and with no hesitation, he dove towards the drawer, opened it, and pulled out the largest knife he could find.

 

"Patrick-"

 

"What are you doing-"

 

"Oh god, you finally went crazy. You're finally gonna kill us-"

 

Patrick could only spare a glare at Kevin as he passed the knife to his dad, before quickly moving to fetch another for himself. When... _whatever was out there_  knocking at the door tried to come through, Patrick would be ready. He'd be ready. They'd be ready. It was gonna be okay.

 

It was gonna be okay.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Huddled in the living room, the whole family had fallen silent and blank. The silence, the darkness, the breathing. The uncertainty that drowned the air was clouding Patrick's lungs, and with every quiet moment that passed, it only worsened.

Megan, who had been struggling to keep her disapproving glares quiet, finally broke the silence with a heavy sigh. "Well, it's been fun, sitting with all of you in the dark." Patrick rolled his eyes at the painful sarcasm, and he didn't miss the glower his sister supplied in response.

 

She clicked her tongue and stood with a disappointed smile, "But I have homework to do. So, if you'll all excuse me."

 

The moment David lurched forwards to pull her back down into hiding, a thud landed against the living room window, and Megan's scream pierced the air.

She toppled back onto the ground amidst the breathless whimpers of her family, and as Patricia tried her best to calm her daughter down, Patrick leant up to caught a real glimpse of what was panting against the window.

 

Everything inside him felt paralyzed as he gazed into soulless eyes, bile crept up his throat at peeling hands that left trails of something dark and sticky on the windows, and snakes writhed in his stomach at the snarling, unhinged jaw that met him.

The clear eyes with rotted pupils stared him and his family down hungrily, and a loosely hanging jaw emitted high croaks as it pressed against the glass, spit trailing down in heavy strands.

 

Every zombie outbreak movie he'd ever watched, every game he'd ever played, every gross picture he'd seen of decay, everything blasted on tv screens, on the silver screen, on billboards- And yet, nothing could have prepared Patrick for this.

 

It was the worst thing Patrick had ever seen.

 

 

 

The night rolled on, but the sunrise brought no relief. The screams had turned into mournful sobs, and as more thuds landed against the glass, more shuffling footsteps rang around their house, and as more hungry croaks and wanting snarls filled the air, the terror remained.

  
Patrick's hand was still tight around the knife handle as his head dropped onto his dad's shoulder in a moment of sleepy weakness. He was so tired, so exhausted- fuck, so scared. But he couldn't sleep, he couldn't rest.

 

All he could do was sit in that dark room with his family, hold his knife, listen to the screams, and wait for a miracle.

 

 

 


	2. Doc, There's A Hole Where Something Was

 

"The- The worst thing for me is uh…the flashbacks."

 

Pete really tried not to sigh. He really did.

 

The bald counselor spared Pete a disapproving look, and at the stare, Pete exhaled quietly and clicked his teeth idly, eyes drooping in boredom as the nervous blonde kid kept telling the same story he'd told for an entire week in a row.

 

"I- I was- I was walking around m-my town- Jensburg- it's uh- it's really nice, there's a lot of t-trees and-" As the kid started going on the same, melancholic tangent about his hometown, the counselor cleared his throat with a kind smile, along with urging eyes that made the kid nod nervously and carry on with the old, worn story.

  
"And, there was- there-" The kid chewed on his lip for a moment, pale, rot-blotchy skin nonreactive as his nails dug into his palms. "This little kid- it- l-like- t-t-two years old- and I-" His voice was high and shaky, and as his eyelids twitched, dried tear ducts refused to water them. "I…it's so- it's so clear- what- what I did to him- and, I-" The kid's shoulders hunched as he dipped his head, trembling all over. "And the- the guilt is, crippling, and I- I deserve it, I know I do-"

 

"You were hungry," A girl with short light hair spared an irritable shrug, "You shouldn't feel guilty."

 

The counselor tutted, eyes struggling to fend off a roll. The girl's pale, rotted eyes turned to him, and her mouth twisted into a scowl. "What? They killed us too- they had no problem blowing our heads off."

She leaned up in her seat, eyes still narrowed on the man. "But oh no- I'm sorry, that's-" Her fingers curled into inverted commas as her tone became more and more belligerent- as well as more and more sarcastic. "' _defending humanity_ '. That's not murder- that's being a hero!"

  
As more silence haunted the room, her voice dropped, along with her posture as she lent back into her seat.

"They get medals for killing us. And what do we get?" She glanced around at the others in the wide circle, eyes filled with rebellion and posture to the brim with discontent. "We get incarcerated. Treated like animals. Medicated, every. Single. _Day_ -"  
  
An older, darker yet death-bleached woman with a kindly face sighed and gave the girl a disapproving stare. "Without medication we'd go back to being rabid."

 

"Well maybe that's the best way to be."

 

An uncomfortable quietness fell over them, but as quickly as it had come, another boy, only a little less whiny than that other one, rolled his eyes with a mumble. "You're such an idiot-"  
  
"Oh, _I'm_ an idiot?" The light girl's grin was back in place, bright and sarcastic as ever. "I'm not the one who took acid two years ago and thought he could _fly_ -"

 

"That's enough." The counselor's voice was a burst of firmness, cutting through all the mockery and sarcasm that had taken over. The arguing parties all fell back into their seats, but their eyes held silent fury.

"Now, I understand- you must all be on edge for Sunday, right?" The man cast a gaze around at them, "It's scary, to go back to the real world, but-" His eyes softened and his voice grew firm and reassuring, "You'll be seeing your families again. Your friends-" An alarm bell cut through his words, loud and grating and Pete was totally sure he'd be hearing the echo of it for years to come.

 

The counselor's words were buzzed in his ears as he paced away with the rest, shepherded out of the room by guards clad in splotchy camouflage and helmets, all while holding rifles that looked heavy as hell.

Pete's eyes shifted over a few of them nervously as he followed the current of others like him, all dressed in white clothes that looked straight out of a sanatorium. It was lucky they hadn't put them in straitjackets- or, not yet, anyway.

 

With a glance to his side, Pete spotted the blinded windows past other pale and dead eyed patients; He could just about see grass- maybe even a few clouds.

In truth, Pete had no idea where he was. He'd been trapped under the thumb of internment for almost a year.

 

Back when his eyes had opened, he'd been in a rotten casket, buried under a meter of soil. Looking back on it now, as the vivid pictures flashed through his head, all that gripped Pete's motionless heart was panic- even if back then the only thing on his mind had been _people_. Being buried alive would kinda suck, to put it mildly.

Thankfully, Pete had been very much dead when he'd been buried, so it _hadn't_ all been a plot to murder him. Good to know.

 

As they rounded a corner, Pete glanced upwards to watch those in front of him being pushed into a single file line, so in order to avoid getting a rifle to the back of the head, Pete shuffled into line quietly, and decided to quickly distract his mind with something else.

 

Pete had watched a lot of zombie movies in his time, and in almost all of them, the government either fell or 'noped' out of the situation. The president and all the important, rich people might grab planes somewhere safe, hide in a luxury bunker, or just escape to some secret base on the moon or something.

  
But it turns out, the government deserved more credit than they got- in the case of an apocalypse, anyway.

  
No, instead of running away, shutting everything down, and leaving their citizens at the mercy of whatever was trying to murder them all, they'd stepped in with full force.

The marines, navy, air force- the entirety of the military was mobilized, and within a week, all major cities were under control, and all the...well, they were calling them 'PDS, or, Partially-Deceased Syndrome sufferers', but essentially- the zombies had been rounded up and put in zombie prison. And that was less cool than it sounded.

 

It took a few more weeks for all the towns to get the all clear, but a mere two months later, and everyone that had popped out of the ground one Monday night, was safely behind bars- in the US, anyway. Europe had quickly gotten their shit together, and so had the likes of Japan and Australia, but as for the more war torn or poverty stricken countries, they'd taken to just culling the undead, rather than working on a cure.

 

Yeah, _a cure_. The movies had really failed to mention that one.

 

Scientists from all over joined together in some lab in Greenland. They worked tirelessly, testing on hundreds of subjects, trying thousands of cures, when finally- they'd found one. And they'd given it the convoluted sciencey name of: Neurotriptyline.

Clear, injected, and a rebuilder of brain cells, Neurotriptyline turned all the drooling, decomposing monsters back into people. Kind of.

There was a sucky side of it too. The cure came with mountains of 'optimistic' side effects. Optimistic because their presence meant a subject was responding, but horrific because said side effects were hellish to deal with.

Insomnia, flashbacks, lethargy, depression, panic attacks, fever, convulsions, nausea- to name a few. Hell, Pete had already been a depressed insomniac before all this, but now, it was only gonna get worse.

This was a really nice opportunity for those dead from involuntary causes- a gift, even. Elderly people got their spouses who had died naturally back. Parents got their once cancer-ridden children back. Families got their mothers and fathers killed by accidents back.

 

And while that was all well and good, Pete's entire death had circulated around the fact that he wouldn't have to deal with any consequences.

The deal was that he'd take a few too many pills, fade to black, and that'd be it; No more pain, no more mood swings, no more anxiety- just rest.

 

Pete glared down at his pale hands, lip curling at the sight of dark veins, only filled with clotted blood now.

 

He wasn't supposed to come back. He wasn't supposed to have to face his family, his friends- oh god, he wasn't supposed to face Patrick again. That had been the deal. That had been the promise. And yet, fate had snatched their agreement from him so cruelly.

Pete glanced upwards to see a chair sat in the hall were they pressed against the wall. It was covered in undone leather straps, surrounded by metal trays, syringes, and doctors and snapping on gloves, all while they stood wrapped in blue, light biohazard suits.

 

"One by one- and _slowly_."

 

Pete sighed quietly and watched the first person approach; A guy with a nervous smile and a face plastered in old burns, maybe he'd died in a fire.

The straps were pulled taut and choking around his arms, legs, neck and chest, all while the doctor tilted his jaw from side to side, eyes squinting as he checked for signs of something Pete didn't understand.

With a nod, he fetched a syringe from the metal table, pressed the bevel into a vial, and drew up a full dose of Neurotriptyline, all while keeping a careful eye on the man.

Needle flicked and glinting in the light, the doctor rounded the patient, and although the syringe was hidden from sight, Pete could totally see the _moment_ it went in.

The burnt man gasped croakily, white eyes glazing over in something desperate as his mouth gaped like a fish's out of water. He trembled all over, hands and toes curling, but all before he drooped back against the chair with a heavy sigh and a nod from the doctor, who moved away with the syringe in his hand as the nurses untied the man and pushed him towards an armed guard.

 

"Next."

 

Another glance upwards, another voice, another person shuffling forwards, and Pete still jumped every time they gasped.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pete rubbed at the back of his neck with a wince at the hole he felt under his finger tips. Every time some doctor or nurse jabbed the syringe in there, it'd hurt. It hurt for everyone- but the staff just kept supplying that they were physically dead, their systems were 'offline', their nerves were inactive- they couldn't feel pain.

That was true in some respects; Pete could pinch and slap across the face himself all day, but he'd be left bruise-less and completely fine, if a little bit irritated. But, Christ- something about that hole ground into the back of his neck _stung_ and _ached_ like the worst hornet's sting imaginable.

 

He shook his head and followed the line, rubbing at his eyes idly as he heard the redheaded girl in front of him be called to attention.

 

"Eye color?"

 

"...Um...C30?"

 

"Skin color?"

 

"Uh...B2, I think-"

 

"Next."

 

The girl was glared away by the armed guard that stood by the woman at the desk, and as she scurried away with two boxes in hand, Pete was urged forwards by a squint.

The woman looked bored- no, all the workers who were handing the boxes out did.

 

"Eye color?"

 

Pete stared down at the chart on the table; A, C- no, that was all blue. He wasn't really going for the Full Aryan experience here.

The Ts were too dark- his eyes weren't _that_ dark. Or, well, they _hadn't_ been that dark. Y'know, before they'd rotted away and had turned freaky white. The D ranges- those were more similar, sure- he'd go with that.

 

"D50."

 

The woman passed him a thin, rectangular box with a dull stare; Damn, she looked more dead than half of the zombies did. Impressive.

 

"Skin color?"

 

Yet another chart was shoved his way; A pack of boxes that faded from the palest of the pale, to the darkest of the dark. Since Pete was neither, his eyes drew to the middle; The 'mixed' colors. Pete hadn't spent much time contemplating his skin back when he was alive, but if he had to- Oh shit, the guard was glaring at him.

 

"D...6?"

 

The moment she handed him another rectangular, medical looking box, the words 'Next' rang out of her mouth like a buzzer, and Pete was forced away in the same direction the blue eyed girl had.

 

 

 

 

A few moments of bored pacing, being pointed a few different ways by rifle muzzles, and trying his best not to accidentally 'provoke' any guards, and Pete had finally reached the dormitories.

 

Eight to a room, and the most uncomfortable bunks in the entire universe- oh, and drafts. A lot of drafts.

 

Despite all of that, as Pete stepped through the door he was glad to finally be away from suspicious and disgusted eyes. It was never fun to be stared at like vermin.

He sat down on his bunk for a moment, glancing around at the still empty room; He supposed people were still being given their cover ups, the tools to help them blend into society without instantly standing out as zombies. Or PDS sufferers- whatever. Pete still thought that name was dumb.

  
With a sigh, Pete rose from the bed and paced over to the worn wooden door that led into a tiny, cramped bathroom.

 

The first thing that met him was a mirror, and Pete couldn't help the grimace he gave.

 

With a shaky inhale he didn't need, Pete stepped forwards, eyes squinting and intent on examining himself. He usually tried to avoid reflections, but seeing as he'd have to cover up every day after this one, it'd been interesting to see what he truly looked like, one last time.

 

He'd never been that pale before, and there was a deathly, grey tinge under his skin. Every inch of him was splotched with patches of darkness, where rot had once been festering in his skin. His dark veins were rampant over his face and neck, some were puffed up, being held thick by clumps of dry blood, and some were flat, places that had been empty when Pete's blood had stopped flowing two years ago.

 

Two years. It felt more like ten.

 

His eyes flitted away from the mirror, and instead decided to read the words printed onto white card as he opened the first box. They were the eye contacts, and Pete could only groan.

He very rarely wore glasses, yet what was even rarer was him wearing contact lenses.

Pete glanced up at the mirror again, and the sight steeled his heart completely.

 

His eyes were white. Not pale, not light blue- _white_. The only thing left of what had once been light, hazel-tinted brown, was a pair of distorted black pupils that looked like tiny splatters of ink.

It freaked him the hell out, to be mild, so without much further complaint, Pete carefully took the first contact lens, pulled his eye open with his free fingers, and placed the plastic, before blinking furiously and jerking away from the mirror.

A few moments of angry blinking down at the ground, and Pete hurried back over to the mirror, widening his eye and smiling a little at the sight of what almost looked like his old, real eyes.

Pete made a quiet happy noise in the back of his throat, glad the attempt at wearing contacts hadn't left him blind as he picked up the other one, and set to work once more.

 

The skin cover-up, mousse, thingy- well _whatever_ it was, it was trickier to put on than the contact lenses, if believable. But, through enough strokes accidentally wiping half of the damn thing off, Pete hand finally fully coated what parts of him would be visible under clothes, and as he stared at himself in the mirror for a moment, feeling it dry on his skin.

 

He actually looked kinda... _alive_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pete stared at his shoes, nose twitching occasionally at the heavy feeling of the mousse as he tried to distract himself by playing old bass notes on his jean clad thigh. They'd handed out clothes in masses, all depending on age and gender.

Little kids got plain shirts and Velcro shoes, old people got sweaters, dresses and neat Sunday best shoes. Whereas those jumbled into both teenager and young adult were accosted with hoodies, jeans and sneakers, leaving everyone between the ages of 15 and 25 looking like walking stereotypes.

 

And even though he complained, Pete had dressed like this before the whole...situation, so he really had no place to complain.

 

Pete refrained from chewing on his fingernails, it'd always been a bad habit and he'd been trying to kick it for some time. Instead, he ran a dry hand through his hair and focused on the bounce of his leg as raw nerves writhed in his stomach like pythons.

 

His parents were picking him up today. It'd be the first time he'd seen them since...since that last day, two years ago. It was odd; Being interned had felt like a lifetime, and yet, the last day he'd seen his parents felt like yesterday.

Pete dropped his face into his hands, grateful the cover-up had dried as he rubbed at his temples; They didn't hurt, but it was a comforting little habit. Something to convince himself that he could still feel anything at all.

 

"Pete?"

 

With a start, Pete's head snapped up to find his case worker- and the case worker of nineteen others. The kindly woman gave him a smile, and there was something sad and sympathetic behind it as she spoke once again. "They're here."

 

Pete really tried to give a smart-ass response, but he couldn't.

 

All he could do was nod stiffly, before standing up just as robotically and shuffling outside, following the kindly woman and trying to ignore the dry retches that crawled through his throat.

 

The wooden door opened, and she stepped aside with a smile.

 

Pete looked up, and in a second, his stomach dropped.

 

His mom and dad were stood there, wide eyed and practically clinging to each other in some sense of shocked comfort.

 

And then, his mom burst into a sob, hand pressing over her mouth as her eyes clenched shut, and Pete felt like the worst person in the world.

 

"It's okay, Dale-" Pete's dad, Peter, wrapped an arm around his wife's shoulders, letting her give shocked sobs into his shoulder as he stared back at his son with an open mouth.

"I- Y-you-" His Adam's apple bobbed roughly, and he gave a firm nod despite a jaw shifting under his skin. "You look...well- I wasn't expecting- well," He shook his head at himself, giving Pete a nervous yet trying smile. "I don't know what I was expecting, but- you _hear_ things, and- I- I-"

Pete's mom finally steeled herself enough to stare at her son, and despite the hand over her mouth, she tried a few steps forwards. The nervousness his parents radiated was slowly killing Pete again, but as soon as his mom had started, she didn't stop.

 

Dale pulled him into a desperate hug, and Pete let go of a long suffering sigh as he dropped her head into her shoulder, trying to block her sobs from his ears, but to no avail.

 

"Oh- _god_ \- god, _thank_ _you_ _god_ -" The words were muffled as Pete felt a weight on the back of his head, and part of him knew it was her hand. He gulped needlessly for a second, unsure thoughts plaguing for a moment before he put his arms around his mom, and gave a shaky sigh, all while being crushed under the heavy weight of raw guilt.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Andrew, Hillary- can you both come down here please?"

Pete's dad called from the foot of the stairs as he shrugged his coat off, and despite a few faint sighs, two pairs of footsteps rang down the steps not long after.

Pete chewed his tongue nervously as they came into sight, and despite his parents' smiles and his mom's reassuring hand on his back, Pete couldn't stop himself shaking.

 

Andrew saw him first, face dropping into something blank and unreadable, before he was quickly followed by Hillary- who quickly let her jaw drop.

 

Peter gave his younger children a reassuring smile, before motioning them forwards. They followed his prompt with shifting eyes and hunched shoulders, before stopping in front of their older brother with so any things in their eyes it made Pete dizzy.

 

Andrew, his little brother, only two years younger than him. He'd been sixteen when Pete died, but- wait, _two years_...he was eighteen now. God, that made Pete feel worse than it should've.

And then there was Hillary, a fourteen year old now, if his calculations were correct. Her shocked stare had quickly changed into something darker, and she was the first to break the silence with something that very nearly broke Pete.

 

"Is it gonna stay here?"

 

" _Hillary_ -"

"Hillary- your brother is not an 'it'- and he is going to stay here for as-"

 

His sister's lip curled and she shook her head, starting with a step backwards. "It's not my brother. It just looks like him." She glared at Pete once more as she reached the base of the stairs. "My brother died two years ago." And with that, she left the room, footsteps clanging up the steps before the slam of a door shook the house.

 

Pete was glad he couldn't cry anymore, because if he could, he'd be crying a fucking river right now.

 

Andrew finally glanced up from the floor, eyes curious and nervous as he tried a step forwards. He looked as though he was walking into fire by the look on his face, but he, like their mother, never stopped once he started.

He caught Pete in a hard, fast hug that his older brother was more than willing to reciprocate. Pete could see Andrew's back jolting with the silent huffs of stifled sobs, but before he'd even had time to formulate _something_ comforting, Andrew had pulled back with a nod as firm as their father's and well hidden teary eyes.

 

"It's good to see you."

 

Pete nodded back, his smile shaky and watery.

 

"Good to see you too, Andrew."

 

There was more silence, awkward and heavy, but all before Peter spoke up with that sad smile that just about everyone seemed to be wearing today. "All your old stuff's upstairs, if you…" The words faded at Pete's perplexed look, "You...In the attic?"

 

Peter seemed just as confused, but his furrowed brow and open jaw quickly became stutters and shakes of his head. "No, uh- in- in your room."

 

Pete blinked, eyes freezing over along with his chest. "You...kept my room?" His dad gave a shaky sigh that held something incredulous, but his mom only nodded with a broad smile and with eyes that looked to be on the brim of tears, "It's just how you left it, sweetheart."

 

Everything felt slightly dream-like as everyone finally dispersed, albeit stiffly, and the moment Pete opened door to his bedroom, it felt like he'd gone back in time two years.

 

It was just how he'd left it- the bed hadn't even been made; It'd been left in the rumple he always left it in on a school morning, and although his mom would usually make it and then scold him for it later, she hadn't this time.

Every piece of clothing, book or pen that had been left on the floor was still there, and the walls were still chipped by the times he'd torn old posters off of the wall.

His bass guitar was still sat in its case, taking up his whole desk as it glinted in the sunlight. He stepped towards it and plucked a string, only to cock his head in confusion when he realized it was in tune.

 

Two years, and it was still in tune? No- that couldn't be right. He'd left it for a _day_ before, and it had needed tuning. There was no way it was still tuned unless- unless...someone had been tuning it.

 

Pete felt his stomach drop once more. Now that he really looked around, his room was _clean_. Sure, it was still in the perpetual state of havoc he always left it in- ever since he was little his mom would call him a hurricane, but it was _clean_ ; There were no spiderwebs, no dust, no pests- it was perfectly clean.

 

His parents had kept it clean, they'd tuned his bass, they'd kept his room, even when they hadn't known he was coming back.

 

 

And Pete's already broken heart shattered a little more.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

His parents had been weary of answering the door.

 

It was a well known fact that in the bible belt, the undead were seen as demons. Demons that needed to be purged from the earth, and by 'purged' you could just about guess what they wanted to do.

 

Pete always wondered what it would've been like if they'd stayed in Chicago.

 

In major cities, people had descended into 'apocalypse' mode a lot quicker, and they'd been more open to bashing heads in with bats. Maybe Pete would've died again, just as he'd come back to life again. Maybe that would've been _better_.

 

So when, later that day, a knock rang from the front door, everything collapsed into a silent panic. Pete had peeked over the top of the stairs, and he'd strained his ears just to hear enough of the conversation that took place through a slither in the front door.

 

"Jane-"

 

"Hi Dale, I just wanted to-"

 

"Oh I- I'm sorry, but- it's not a good time. Andrew's-"

 

"I know he's back."

 

Pete froze, and by the tension that ran over his mother, Pete could guess she had too. "W-What-"

 

 

"Pete. I know."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"It was completely random."

Jane, one of the nurse's at the doctor's office, unzipped a blue bag and pulled out a small box as she provided an eager explanation. "I just got a call asking if I wanted to train in," She furrowed her brow, head tilting for a minute as she fetched a vial of something clear and familiar Pete recognized all too well. "PDS community service, and I just-"

She shrugged with a broad smile, "Well, why not- I've never agreed with treating PDS sufferers badly. I mean, I know they went a little _crazy_ for a while, and…" She gulped a little, but her cheery outlook remained, "caused some trouble... but- Well, that's all in the past." Pete struggled to hold back a shocked laugh; Holy shit, she made it sound like the zombies had been vandalizing stores- not- fuck, _eating people alive_.

 

Jane squinted as she drew up the liquid with a clear sign of struggle, making Dale speak up with a nervous glance around at her husband and sons. "How uh...how long did you train for?"

 

"Oh!" Jane grinned up at the syringe proudly as she finally won her battle with the vial. "Three weeks."

 

Pete's eyes dropped a little wide, along with those of his family as the worried glances intensified. Jane only sighed, raising her eyebrows as she looked up at them. "I know, it's a long time, right?"

 

Awkward stringed nods and nervous, fake smiles, before more glances followed as Jane focused back on the booklet she'd drawn up from her bag. She nodded, placing the syringe down for only a moment as she quickly pulled on a pair of plastic gloves, before standing with a nod.

 

"Alright, Andrew, Dale-" The adults snapped to attention, "Come back here and I'll show you how it works."

Pete furrowed his brow and nervous glanced over his shoulder as both the nurse and his parents stood behind the couch. Andrew shuffled away a little, but simultaneously leaned up to catch a glimpse of what exactly was going on behind his brother.

 

 

Pete could feel the sharp intakes of breath as Jane pulled down the back of his hoodie and shirt in one go, no doubt revealing the pitch black hole that sat there. Dark, dry, and no bigger than a cent.

 

"See that hole there- between the first and second vertebrae- that's where the syringe goes." Pete could hear plastic gloves squeaking as she fiddled with the syringe once again, "So, there we go-"

The push of the syringe felt more like the trigger of a gun, and as soon as the bevel emptied out, Pete gave that familiar croaked gasp as he jolted and trembled violently for a moment, vision blanking behind his eyelids.

When it stopped, all he could hear were concerned, yet buzzing calls of his name, and as his eyes fluttered open again, all Pete could see were the wide, worried eyes of his brother, all as he felt a collection of hands on his shoulders and back.

 

"God- how many times-"

 

"Every day I'm afraid."

 

Pete dropped his face into his hands as he listened to the conversation through ringing ears. Andrew's voice came first. "What does it do?"

The question coaxed a few stutters and unsure words from Jane for a moment, before she made a weak effort to string some kind of explanation together. "It uh...it helps with- like, balancing chemicals. Oh! That's right- it helps him make some cells he can't anymore."

 

The word 'anymore' was the only thing that cut across the ringing, and as Jane continued her explanations, all Pete could do was rub at his temples in a futile attempt at stopping the ache that had quickly spread all over his head.

 

"-the contacts are really only for when he has to go outside, and...well, apart from school, he really-" Her tone and face dropped into caution and whispered warning, "He really shouldn't be going outside much."

 

Peter's brow furrowed as his head tilted at the woman, "But, what about the- the protection act?" Jane cleared her throat nervously, "Well...uh- people are...people are stubborn, and when uh- when they think they're right um...I'm afraid there's a...there's always a _risk_ , of-"

 

"So, if I do go outside, too much…?" Pete stared up at Jane, pure curiosity and fear coursing through motionless, jutting veins. The nurse's face dropped for a moment, just before she tried her smile once again. "Well, there…there might be a little trouble."

 

More silence fell over them, and as Pete's mind whirred with all the horrible possibilities of what 'trouble' could mean, Jane rooted around in her bag and cleared her throat once more, offering the family members one more nervous glance.

 

"By uh...by law, I have to, give you this." She drew up something black and as thick as a remote, before Pete noticed the metal prongs on it's end, eyes widening at the sight. A taser. Holy fuck, _a taser_ \- fuck-

 

His parents and Andrew looked just as horrified, but Jane quickly began her optimistic, reassuring rants.

"You- you probably won't have to use it, it's just that- sometimes, if you skip a day, or- or if you run out of," She squinted into thin air, clearly having forgotten the word for the medicine, but after the word only kept eluding her, she nodded over at the syringe instead. "Well, things can...get...tricky, but- I'm sure it'll be fine, but uh...well." She supplied a nervous smile.

 

 

"Better safe than sorry."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pete had always listened to his heartbeat when he couldn't sleep.

 

It was like a beating lullaby, a metronome that kept time with the universe, it soothed him like nothing else could; The thrum of his body as it repaired itself, grew, and kept itself alive.

 

But now it was gone, and Pete was left with the old infernal ringing in his ears.

 

He shifted in the bed, pulling his newly-changed covers further up around him as he squeezed his eyes, feeling the lack of contact lenses on them.

 

Part of him wanted to leave again.

 

His mom, god, the way she'd _cried_. Pete had never felt more cruel than he had in that moment. He hadn't even- back when- god, he hadn't even thought about them. He'd been so selfish- such _an_ _egotistical little bitch_ , fuck-

Pete felt a sob of frustration escape him, hands curling into his covers and teeth biting down on the fleshy inside of his cheek, all as dry eyes clenched and prayed for tears to come.

His dad. His dad had held something back, Pete knew he had. But those thousand-yard stares he'd give Pete sometimes, fuck, they chilled him to the bone.

And then there was Andrew. That hug that had held the same desperation his mom's had. The same concern, yet stone cold stares his dad gave him.

Andrew was the perfect, yet horrific combination of both of his parents. Their mom's sobs, their dad's will to stay strong- and those tiny slithers of what was truly running through his head _pained_ Pete to see.

At least his dad kept it completely sealed away, but Andrew- no, Andrew was too young to keep those things completely hidden.

 

And even _then_ , there was Hillary. She hated him, and a part of Pete didn't understand why, but at the same time, he knew why. And he related to her completely.

That disgusted stare she'd given the monster in her home, the thing that wore her big brother's face, the creature that had ripped three people apart because he was hungry.

 

Pete understood. And that made it hurt even more.

 

He buried his face in his hands, letting himself sob in frustration, and only getting more and more infuriated as no tears came, as no heartbeat drowned out his thoughts. No, instead, his thoughts attacked him like snakes, biting into him and taking root somewhere deep inside him.

 

This wasn't how it was supposed to be. He wasn't supposed to be here. He was never supposed to see their reactions to it- Fuck, it wasn't fair. It wasn't fucking fair- he'd never wanted to see any of it.

 

As Pete's thoughts slurred down, he eventually dropped his head onto the pillow with a tired and thrumming brain, eyes weak and drooped as he begged himself to stop thinking.

He'd always been pretty bad at bargaining, and he'd always been pretty stubborn at the same time. So, his mind completely ignored his pleads, and kept hissing venomous whispers of vicious thoughts to him.

 

 

And as the night rolled on, finally breaking away into weak sunlight- Pete had never been more exhausted.

 

 

 


	3. Welcome Back

 

Pete startled himself awake with a loud yawn, eyes shooting open and body jolting to sit up straight. As the yawn took its course, Pete rubbed at his eyes and shuffled out of bed, leaving the comforter in a crumple as he strode over to the dresser.

After hopping around his room in an attempt to pull a pair of jeans on- oh, and after accidentally getting his arm stuck in a hoodie for a minute, Pete was finally fully dressed.

He only yawned again as he grabbed his bag and clattered down the stairs, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he paced into the kitchen, following the smell of the breakfast his mom was no doubt cooking- as well as the ambient chatter, scraping chairs, and clinking of plates.

 

As another yawn wracked through Pete, he pressed a hand to the back of his sleeve, before finally blinking upwards towards the family, completely missing the fact that all noise had stopped.

 

Pete's brow dropped into a furrow as his eyes found his family. Their eyes were wide, filled with something like subdued horror and shock, and all paired off with jaws that had fallen a little slack under his stare.

 

His mom and dad finally managed to tear their gazes from their son, and instead glanced at each other with silent, stuttered words. Andrew only kept staring at him, eyes wide and hands a little shakier than normal- _Hillary_ however.

 

The girl's face dropped from shock into disgust, and she glared at him from over her plate, eyes dark and nose wrinkled with disdain. "You forgot your contacts, _you_ _freak_."

 

Pete could hardly hear Pete's parent's reprimands and Hillary's arguments as he faltered backwards, eyes wide and face blank in harsher shock than his family's. He was dead- he'd forgotten- _oh god_ -  
  
With a frustrated grunt at himself, Pete stalked from the room and quickly hopped back up the stairs, quickly shutting himself in his room and ignoring his parent's calls of his name.

 

He was so fucking stupid- how had he forgotten that he literally looked like a Tim Burton character come to life?

 

Jesus, his parents were knocking at the door- he didn't need sympathy right now, he didn't need to be comforted, he just needed to put his fucking contacts in and cover himself up- Hillary was right; He was a freak, and he needed to hide it as much as possible.

 

A few angry blinks, and a few frustrated strokes at his face, neck and hands, and Pete looked decently alive once more. Contacts in, skin covered in the stuff that made it itch, and he finally opened the door, finding his parents with wide and nervous eyes, full of shock but with something worried and underlying in them too.

Pete only stifled a sigh and grabbed his bag, before hazarding them a tiny, sorry smile and moving past them, quickly pacing down the stairs and practically crashing out of the front door.

 

The fresh air felt like heaven, and as Pete stuttered to a stop on the driveway of his home, he buried his face in his hands and gave a long, waning sigh.

Rocking back on his heels, Pete dug his fingers into his hair for a moment, tugging at the strands as his jaw clenched harshly. God, he couldn't believe he'd forgotten- fuck, he'd probably ruined his entire family's appetite. Nice going, Pete.

 

"Pete?"

 

Hands leaping down from his hair, Pete turned to see Andrew; Dressed for school, bag on his shoulder, and eyes nervous as he gave his older brother an awkward smile. "I uh...do- do you wanna walk to school?"  
  
Pete's shoulders dropped a little; Shit, Andrew didn't even wanna be near him. He wanted Pete to walk to school, to get out of his sight- and Pete understood him complete-

 

"Like- I mean, together?"

 

Wait.

 

Okay, admittedly, not what Pete had been expecting.

 

He stared at Andrew for a moment, searching for any signs of pity, or duty. Pete's eyes softened; He found none.

With a small smile settling on his face, Pete nodded and watched Andrew step forwards. Both brothers were about to set off when the front door of their house clicked once more. On instinct, their heads turned, but on quickly finding Hillary's wrinkled nose and her glowering eyes, Pete's stomach dropped.

He dropped his head away, tugging his hood over his head and stepping forwards on the sidewalk, prompting Andrew to follow.

 

"I'm uh...I'm sorry about her." Pete quickly shook his head, bottom lip settling under his teeth as he felt wetness trailing from his eyes. But when he subtly swiped at his eyes, trying to rub away any tears, he only felt dryness. They'd been pseudo tears- something his mind had fabricated after years of the feeling.

 

He'd probably never actually see his tears mar his fingertips now, and that made Pete sadder than it should've.

 

The rest of the walk was achieved in comfortable silence, but just as Pete went to step through the gates, eyes locked on the immense building he hadn't seen for so long, a hand caught his arm.

 

Pete glanced over his shoulder, and as he only found Andrew staring at him, teeth caught on his lip and eyes concerned, he turned towards his brother with a small shake of his head. "What's up?"

Andrew inhaled deeply, before stifling a sigh and trying a smile. "Just uh...I- if you need- if you need help, o-or, if anyone's being…"

 

Pete's heart broke a little more.

 

This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Pete was the older brother here, he should be the one protecting his _little_ brother.

He should- Wait, fuck…Andrew was eighteen. Pete was eighteen too- physically and mentally anyway, but he'd be stuck in that perpetual state until something came along and killed him again.

 

But even if they were equal now, Andrew was his little brother.

 

The little kid who had hidden behind Pete, who'd asked him for advice. They'd made up worlds together, they'd pranked their parents together, they'd scared the hell out of each other with stories- and no matter how old Andrew got, that wouldn't change.

 

Andrew was his little brother, and Pete didn't want his protection. He didn't deserve it.

 

"I'll be fine, Drew." Pete nodded reassuringly, offering a smile as he gently tugged his hand away. A final, lingering smile weaved its way onto his mouth, and Pete backed away for a few steps, leaving Andrew with a writhing jaw. But the moment he trying a motion of his head, the younger brother sprung into action, quickly following Pete as they paced into the school.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The hallways were quiet. It was the most unsettling thing Pete had ever seen; Wide eyes, fearful whines, and hunched shoulders from every person he wondered a little too closely to.

God, let alone he accidentally brushed shoulders with someone; They'd fall back with a yell, grabbing their shoulder like he was walking poison.

 

Seeing that 90% of the school had devolved into drama queens, Pete decided to stay as alone as he could. And despite his brother's instances that Pete should come hang out with him and his terrified, wide-eyed, trembling friends, Pete really didn't want to _see_ people's reactions to him.

 

Walking down halls and being stared at like a freaky zoo animal was awful enough, so after enduring the gazes from students and teachers alike for an entire ten minutes, Pete decided to go isolate himself.

 

 

He pushed into the bathroom, pacing over to the corner and leaning into it with a sigh. Pete took a moment to squint at the stalls, but when he saw that all the doors were wide open and not housing more staring kids, he gave another long sigh of relief.

Closing his eyes, Pete tipped his head back against the chipped wall, and let his mind run free for a few moments.

 

Back at school, huh, crazy. He'd never expected to see the halls again, the classrooms would remain a distant memory, his classmates would be smudges in his memory, and yet, here he was, surrounded by everything and looking at it all crystal clear.

 

School was always a lot more bearable with friends. God, he missed Joe, and Andy, and Patrick. Fuck, he wanted to see them again.

He'd been in two minds on what to do; One half of him screamed to go find them, to crush them in hugs and sob for their forgiveness.

 

The other whispered the truth in his ear.

 

Pete was a freak, a monster, and they wouldn't want to see him. They'd be stunned for a moment, that was for sure. Nobody had expected Pete to come back. Hell, the only reason people fled from him now was because of the full page in the year book he'd received two years ago.

 

They wouldn't want to see him, and Pete didn't want to see their faces when they realized what he was now.

 

Pete felt wetness on his cheeks, trailing from his eyes, but he knew it was fake. Nevertheless, he sniffed and wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, and surprise surprise, the fabric was totally dry, nice fucking job, Pete-

 

 

"Oh my god- _fine_ Joe, I'll let you copy my-"

 

 

Pete's eyes snapped open, and as they shot over to the figures stood at the door, his stomach dropped to the centre of the fucking earth.

 

Joe, Andy and Patrick. They were right there, talking, and healthy, and- _alive_. It was a weird distinction to make, but since every living person had stared at him like a squashed bug so far, he couldn't help it anymore.

 

Their faces were painted with blank shock. That pure, raw feeling that can paralyse you in a second and that can capture you like a butterfly in a net. The silence was crushing, and Pete felt like it was smothering him alive when a shuddered exhale shattered it into a thousand pieces.

 

Patrick was swamped by a dark cloud as he stormed forwards, lightning bolts in his eyes and knuckles white. Fuck, Pete just wanted to-

 

_Crack!_

 

Patrick's fist landed square in Pete's face, and as his eyes snapped shut, toppling back into the wall from the sheer force- another one came.

The sides of his head, his nose, his mouth, his eyes- they were all pelted with heavy fists that landed with satisfying cracks, and as they kept coming, harsh and strong and fierce- Pete could only slide to his knees, back braced against the wall as his legs finally gave.

It didn't hurt. None of it hurt. It just felt heavy, choking- and god, irritating as hell. He was numb all over, and as Patrick's fist dragged into his shirt, trying to pull him back up to keep using him like a punching bag, Pete could only whine uselessly.

  
The strings of curses and 'motherfucker' were buzzing in his ears, and as Patrick was pulled away, Pete blinked around the room blearily.

 

He squinted as he watched Andy holding Patrick down, cornering him and speaking quiet sense as the tiny redhead kicked and screamed furiously, trying to get past and back at Pete.

 

"PATRICK- JUST STOP."

 

Pete watched as Patrick gave him a final panting glare, all before a frustrated grunt tore from him like a roar, and he jerked away from Andy, storming out of the bathroom with hunched shoulders and grazed knuckles.

 

Andy turned to stare at Pete, his eyes had lost their initial glazed shock, but they still looked plainly stunned.

Pete blinked over at Joe; He was staring at Pete with something blank in his eyes, his breathing was deep, his eyes were watery, but he said nothing. He tried a pleading glance at Andy, hand twitching as it longed to reach out, but the other boy only shook his head.

 

Joe gave a stuttered gulp, before giving Pete a final lip curl and stalking out of the bathroom, leaving Andy alone with Pete.

 

Andy looked cautious, as though he was stuck in a room with a wild animal he was trying to hide his fear from. Animals could smell fear, after all.

But despite the vacant stare Andy was casting his way, a broken plead tried to split from Pete's mouth.

 

"Andy I-"

 

"I uh-" Andy shook his head, backing away towards the door. "I have class but- I'll uh- I'll…" There was no explanation, and Andy left the bathroom with the words 'I'll' on his tongue, leaving Pete alone and in silence once again.

 

He exhaled, dropping his face into his hands and bringing his knees to his chest. Pete let his fingers weave through his hair, and as ghost tears trailed down his cheeks once more, he could only stare into thin air dryly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lunch break wasn't much better.

The stares had become whispers, and the more Pete tried to stay out of eyeshots and earshots, the more he seemed to end up in the spotlight, somehow.

 

His luck was really shitty today.

 

As Pete sat at a table, completely alone and not really eating since...well, there was no need for it anymore, he heard a scream from the packed entry to the canteen.

 

He furrowed his brow and tilted his head, leaning forwards with a squint as he searched for the cause of the continuing yelps and screams.

There was a hooded figure, lurching at people with snarls and growls, all before collapsing into mocking laughter and repeating the whole thing again, all as they waltzed into the cafeteria like they owned the place.

 

Pete watched for a moment, brow furrowed and curious, all before the hooded kid's gaze froze on him, and at what lay under the hood, Pete's jaw dropped.

 

Pale, blotchy and patched skin. Ink splatter pupils and milky white irises. A dark perpetual bruise that had become a chafed scar was looped around his neck- it kinda looked like rope burn…No mousse, no contacts, no nothing- the kid wasn't trying to hide himself at all.

Pointed, sharp features were tinted grey as white eyes flickered with something interested. The hooded kid's lips quirked into a smile, before he quickly continued his path through the canteen, weaving through people whilst taking his chances to growl at them like a feral creature.

 

 

Pete gulped nervously as he watched the kid disappear, lurching out of the other canteen door with a snarl at a group of girls that gave high pitched screams.

He was so locked on the kid, that when a tap on his shoulder hit his mind, Pete turned with a violent jolt, eyes wide as he found his brother.

 

Everything dropped into relief as Pete sighed and gave an awkward smile, "Hey, uh...how are you-"

 

 

"What happened to your nose?"

 

 

Andrew's eyes were wide as he stared at his brother, full of concern and brotherly worry. Pete furrowed his brow and touched his nose, running his fingers over a few bumps as he watched his brother wince at the move.

"What's- what's up with-" Pete cut his own words off with a groan as he nodded in realization. Patrick had practically beat the shit out of his face, no wonder it was a little fucked up.

 

 

The lack of bruises and blood had really made him forget he still had bones.

 

 

As Andrew took a seat beside him, watching his brother in caution, Pete pressed his digits over his nose and clicked it, pressing down and pushing it back into place with a few sickening crunches that made Andrew gag. Pete wrinkled his nose, eyes squinted at thin air as he checked it felt normal, before raising his brows at his brother. "Good?"

Andrew nodded and smiled weakly, looking slightly green behind the gills. "Yeah. You're good."

 

The sight of a dislocated nose being cracked back into place seemed to have taken all questions about its cause out of Andrew's mind, and Pete, despite feeling a little guilty he'd also killed Andrew's appetite, was glad.

He didn't want to relive what had happened in the bathroom, he didn't want to see Patrick's fury, he didn't want to hear his grunts and screams as he pounded his fists into Pete. He didn't want to think about it.

 

And yet, his own mind, for the millionth time, betrayed him once again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pete knew he was supposed to stay in the house.

 

He was supposed to sit in his room, read a book, do homework- or, whatever. But Pete had never been one for rules.

 

Hood over his head and bag on his shoulders, Pete kept his eyes down as he walked. He focused on the tap of his soles against the concrete, instead of the unwanted recurring memories of the stares, the whispers, the screams, the punches- fuck. It was hard to ignore.

 

He sighed shakily as he kept pacing forwards, letting his legs slip and strain as he soldiered up a grassy knoll, before pacing towards a rickety wooden fence shrouded by barbed wire.

Pete stopped as he glanced over the sign reading 'cemetery', before his eyes shifted towards the spiky wire that blocked it off.

 

After the dead had risen, the living had tried their best to contain the place. First it was shrouded in crime scene tape, then in wire, and Pete wouldn't be surprised if there'd be a wall around it someday.

 

He paced forwards, taking a strand in his hand and pulling it, not caring in the slightest as the metal teeth dug into his hand. Pete tugged enough wire away to make a gap, before he ducked through and stumbled his way forwards into the graveyard.

 

Stopping for a moment, Pete looked over the graves.

 

The graves had been refilled with soil, and now, after a year, grass was flourish once again. It looked as though it had never been disturbed.

Pete sniffed and began pacing forwards towards, eyes scanning over the tombstones as he tried to find his own name. He needed to see his grave. He just needed to.

 

But, when he finally saw what looked like the plain, shiny, grey stone- etched with a clear 'Pete Wentz' in the near distance, he noticed someone was sat on his grave

 

Back braced against his tombstone, legs crossed on the bump of grass, almost fucking _sunbathing_ on his _grave_ \- what the fuck? Had that kid never been taught to respect the dead? Or...the partially dead- whatever, the point still stood.

 

Pete furrowed his brow and stepped forwards, "Uh...Excuse me? You're sitting on my grave."

 

As Pete approached, the kid's eyes burst wide and he sat up in surprise, before his mouth quickly twisted into a cheery grin and Pete noticed something...odd.

 

 

The kid almost looked alive. Almost.

 

 

Dark brown hair was parted and soft-looking, but that was the only normal part about him. His skin looked painted on, almost...fake. And his eyes- they were slightly lifeless. They looked like Pete's did.

Pete's furrowed brow softened as his jaw slackened a little, and as the kid spoke up with a happy lilt to his voice, his worst suspicions were confirmed.

 

"Oh hey, sorry, it's just, I couldn't bother looking for mine, y'know?"

 

Pete blinked, the words coming out of his mouth stupidly as he gaped. "Y-Yours?" The boy nodded, jumped to his feet and sticking his hand out in a friendly gesture. "I'm Brendon. Brendon Urie." Taking the hand and shaking it, Pete nodded slowly as his mind still swam with burning questions. "Pete."

Brendon nodded happily again, before sighing and taking a seat back on Pete's grave, before patting the grass next to him. Pete blinked, but obliged, taking a seat next to the other dead boy, without really considering what the hell he was doing.

Brendon stared at Pete for a few silent moments, making the hair on Pete's skin prickle uncomfortably, but all before his smooth voice cut across the awkward silence.

 

 

"So how'd you die?"

 

 

Pete choked on his own spit, coughing into his fist as his eyes shot wide at the sheer bluntness of the question. Jeez, that was a little rude, wasn't it? Wasn't that their equivalent of asking a woman's age or something?

 

"Uhh-"

 

"I'll go first!" Brendon sat up happily, crossing his legs as he shifted to face Pete fully. "I died of cancer."

 

Pete blinked, jaw slack. "Uh...okay." Brendon only hummed, nodding with a broad smile. "Yeah, lung cancer."

He shrugged, "My parents couldn't pay for the chemo- I have four brothers and sisters so...yeah…" His laugh was breathy and Pete was incredulous at how someone could laugh at something like that. Brendon glanced up at him, eyes wide and expectant. Fuck, now _that_ was awkward.

 

Clearing his throat, Pete shook his head and shrugged, "I uh...I-"

 

Without a warning, Brendon lurched out, grabbing Pete's arm and tugging his sleeve down, eyes locked on his wrist. Pete jolted and tried to pull his arm back. "Dude- what the-"

 

 

"Overdose?"

 

 

Pete froze.

 

How the fuck did he know?

 

"How- _How_ -"

 

"No cuts on your wrist." He shrugged with a smile, releasing Pete's limb as he leaned back on his hands, fingers lacing and tugging at the grass, speaking with a little sarcasm in his voice. "Us teens are a little predictable."

 

Pete quirked an eyebrow, holding back an incredulous laugh. "Us teens? What are you, fifty?" Brendon laughed loudly, not caring about his appearances, apparently.

 

 

"Who's your friend, Bren?"

 

 

Pete glanced over his shoulder at the voice, before finding that another figure was pacing towards them. Skin blotched and pale, but eyes a dull, fake yet rich brown. Pete's eyes widened a little; He was dead too. Jesus Christ, how many of them were there?

 

"Uh…" Brendon squinted at the headstone, before clearing his voice and reading out the words in a cheesy, salesman's voice. "Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the third. Aged 18 years. A beloved son who's sorely missed."

 

The unknown kid only chuckled quietly and shook his head, before taking a seat on the grass beside Brendon. "Ignore him. I'm Ryan." Pete, once again, took a pale hand in his own and shook it silently.

 

"So," Ryan leaned back a little, eyebrows raising coolly. "Is it 'Peter', or 'Pete'?" Pete shook his head nervously, "Uh- yeah, Pete. It's Pete."

 

Brendon nodded knowingly and smiled, voice cheery as he spoke not-so-cheery words. "Pete died of an overdose."

 

Pete couldn't help his slight choke again, but Ryan only nodded reassuringly, as Brendon, once again, chimed in with Ryan's backstory. "Ryan got...Ryan-" Brendon chewed on his lip for a moment, face falling as blinked oddly. Pete furrowed his brow; That was odd. He'd been so cheery- and, all of a sudden-  
  
Ryan's hand rubbed Brendon's back as he gave him a comforting smile that Brendon weakly returned, before the pale boy glanced back towards Pete. "I got murdered. And raped."

Pete choked on a cough again; Fuck, they were crazy. Nice fucking conversation topic dude, real damn casual. ' _Oh hey, don't mind me, I just got raped and murdered, how'd you die?_ ' Jesus, did they had no shame? Or- or pain? Or- fuck, Pete didn't know anymore.

 

 

"A two in one deal. Right Ry?"

 

 

Another voice came from behind Pete, and as he glanced over his shoulder, he spotted-

 

Holy shit.

 

It was that kid. That kid that had been growling at people- holy fuck, that was him. Fuck, how many of them _were_ there?

 

"Hey Mikey. How you doing?"

 

Mikey shrugged idly, before slumping down on the grass with a sigh and resting back on his hands. "Decent." He quirked an eyebrow and nodded at Ryan. "You?"

 

Ryan nodded back, smile small and quiet. "I'm fine." He suddenly furrowed his brow a little, glancing around at the other three. "Have you guys taken your meds today?"

Pete bristled at the question, forgetting Ryan wasn't talking about the more sensitive pills he'd once taken. They wouldn't work now anyway.

Brendon nodded quickly, "Yeah, mom didn't let me leave the house without it." Mikey only shrugged with a scoff, "Gerard's been chasing me down with the syringe all day."  
The gazes moved to Pete, and he suddenly found himself a little stifled. He gulped and nervously shook his head. Shit, he hadn't taken it today- he needed to. Right away. He needed to get home. Even if he missed _a single_ day-

 

"Well, just remember to take it before tomorrow. We wouldn't want a...situation, right?"

 

Pete shouldn't have asked questions, but his dumbass mind pushed a question out of his mouth before he'd even considered if asking it was a good idea. "What do you mean by situation?"

 

The other three shared a glance, and Pete felt as though they knew something he didn't. Shit, why was he so out of the loop? How were they already experts on-

 

"They're hanging us." Mikey's voice was bitter and filled with aloof disdain as his eyes lidded, "Or lynching, I guess. I don't know."

Pete felt like a stupid little kid as his eyes drooped wide, jaw growing a little slack. "Really?" Mikey snorted a laugh and shook his head, "God, are you...Amish, or something?"

"Mikey, for-" Ryan couldn't help a small chuckle as Brendon laughed heartily, but he _could_ muster a kind look Pete's way. "Don't worry about it. Just try and stay indoors." His eyes widened a little, "Oh! Especially at night."

  
Pete furrowed his brow and blinked, head cocking as he finally formulated a smarter question. "So...why are you outside, then?"

Brendon grinned and stretched his arms over his head, crooking his neck as he did so. "I need that D dude." He wiggled his eyebrows at Ryan, nudging him in the ribs. "That _vitamin D_." Ryan rolled his eyes with a tiny smile, "Yeah, you really gotta keep that tan up, huh?" As Ryan dissolved into small smiles at Brendon's laughter, Mikey took a moment to squint at Pete.

 

"Why are _you?_ "

 

Pete blinked, tearing his eyes away from Brendon and Ryan to meet Mikey instead. "Uh...I just-"

 

"Well, whatever the reason is, we have our own reasons too."

 

Pete nodded quickly, shirking back under the gaze a little as he cast another awkward glance at Ryan, then at Brendon. "I uh...I have some homework I gotta...do." Their looks were dubious, but accepting. "Yeah, so…" Pete gave them a weak smile as he stood, nodding a goodbye at them before he paced away.

When he reached the barbed wire, he glanced over his shoulder. They were still sat on his grave, chatting plainly and casually as though there was nothing weird about them.

 

Pete sighed, shaking his head. How could they feel okay like this? Okay, with- with not wearing contacts? With not covering their skin? How could they be so comfortable? Weren't they scared? Weren't they ashamed?

 

Pete didn't know about them, but he did know _he_ felt like shit most of the time. Walking around and practically being a beacon of everything wrong with the world wasn't easy.

 

 

And as Pete left the cemetery, he could still feel them sitting on his grave.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pete rubbed his neck as he climbed the stairs, fingers rubbing over the hole that sat at its nape as he hissed at the ache that spread through his head.

 

He bent his neck from side to side, groaning at the feeling as he pushed through his bedroom door. His dad had administered the syringe, and Pete much preferred him to the doctors back at the prison- oh, no, the ' _hospital_ ', sorry.

 

Pete was still a little bitter about that wasted year, admittedly.

 

He pulled off his clothes and left them strewn on the floor as he pulled on sweatpants and a sweater. There was no point in folding them, he'd probably wear them again tomorrow and besides, it wasn't like there was anyone to impress anymore. Nobody wanted a freak, after all.

 

Pete fell into bed with a groan, before realizing his eye contacts were still in. He whined into the pillow, before lifting his head and pawing them out roughly, before clattering them over onto his beside table with a sigh.

Pete was so tired. His mind was his own worst enemy; It never let him rest. It tormented him with stupid, petty shit, before jumping headfirst into the worst topics imaginable.

He exhaled shakily as his head began thrumming with thoughts, and Pete could only curl up and bury his face in his hands, letting his nails dig into his skin. A sudden burst of anger raged over Pete, and his fingernails took to scratching and clawing at his face with grunts of frustration.

The desperate sobs that were echoes of the night before began attacking Pete again, ripping out of his throat into thin air as no tears came.

One of Pete's yells of irritation was a little too loud as he shoved his face into his mattress, back jolting as he sobbed.

 

A knock on his door shook him away from his thoughts, and as Pete glanced over his shoulder, he desperately wiped away pseudo tears as he cleared his throat nervously. "Uh- come in?"

 

The door opened, and his mom stepped through, eyes soft and smile softer. Pete sat up, clearing his throat once again before-

 

"Shit-" Pete's hands fumbled around on his bedside table, desperately trying to find his contact lenses in the dark before his mom helpfully clicked the beside lamp on and shook her head at the contact lenses.

 

Pete obliged and backed away, but he didn't miss how his mom struggled to look him in the rotten eyes.

 

"I uh...I heard you, sweetheart-" Pete groaned and dropped his head into his hands, but his mom only tutted and raised her eyebrows at him. "And I just wanted to check on you."

 

Peeking out from his digits, Pete sighed and nodded, trying a weak smile. "I'm okay mom. Thanks."

 

There was a sad smile and silence, before his mom shook her head softly. "No, you're not."

Pete stifled a shaky exhale as his mom offered a hug which he gladly fell into. "And it's okay that you're not." He felt a hand carding through his hair, and as his mom's voice broke a little more, so did the already splintered shards his already battered heart. "But- I- I promise it's gonna get better, sweetheart."

Pete fisted his hands into the back of her cardigan helplessly, eyes clenching shut as he gave silent sobs into her shoulder. God, he shouldn't be showing this much weakness. But at the same time-

 

" _I love you_ _so much_ , sweetheart."

 

Pete broke. He cried helplessly, whining and whimpering like a child into his mom's shoulder as she held him without complaint, hand soothing through his hair and warm as Pete comforted himself with her heartbeat, pressing his ear to her neck.

 

 

The thuds were comforting, and as Pete closed his eyes once more, he would've given anything to feel his _own_ again.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wew, more and more Panic! lyrics, thank you based Brendon Urie.  
> Also, I just wanted to quickly thank all of you. Everyone who's reading, left kudos, bookmarked, commented- you're all amazing, and it means to much to see the numbers in my inbox every morning. Thank you all so much.
> 
> (Also, this is such a fitting fic for Halloween aka October, wow, I just realized lol)


	4. Home Is Wherever I'm With You

 

"Living organisms are living because of the seven characteristics that they possess."

 

Their biology teacher, Mrs. Shannon, a round woman with light eyes and red cheeks. She'd always been a nice person; Kind to her students, a good informer, and lacking in the punishment department.

 

But now, she was struggling, Pete could tell she was.

 

The living students were jittery and glancing, making sure to keep the dead in their peripheral vision out of paranoia. The atmosphere was tense and heavy, and Pete could feel it smothering him as the woman kept speaking with a tinge of worry behind her tone.

 

"They can..." She took a moment to scrawl a word on the board with a green pen that was starting to fade. "move. They can change their positions at will, alright?" A wide eyed look swept over her class as she continued. Another word, below the other one, and slightly less pale than before. "They can reproduce. As in, make more of the same kind of organism-"

 

The topic was elementary, admittedly; Pete could remember all this stuff from middle school, but, nevertheless, Mrs. Shannon had insisted on revising a few topics, just to really solidify them in her student's minds.

 

"Sensitivity-" She nodded at the class, "They can detect and sense stimuli- and respond to them." Pete heard a quiet whimper from his left, and as he glanced over his shoulder, just registering Mrs. Shannon's explanation on growth, he found the source of the pitiful noises.

 

A girl was trembling all over, hands over her mouth and nose as her eyes went red and watery. Her light, long and straight hair cascaded down into her face as she sobbed quietly, and all as her friend rubbed her back with reassuring words.

 

Pete looked back towards the board, finding their teacher scrawling 'Respiration' on the board as her words accompanied the term. "They can create chemical reactions. Usually to, break down some nutrients, in order to release energy."

 

Another whimper, louder and shakier than the last, drew Pete's eyes back to the girl. She was practically collapsed in her friend's arms as her back trembled, and as her sobs became more and more violent, Pete was getting seriously concerned.

 

Pete tore his eyes away, staring forwards blankly as something about excess substances reached his ears.

His eyes shifted over to a familiar mop of strawberry hair, and he felt his heart tighten immediately.

 

Patrick. God, he wanted to talk to him, but at the same time, he wanted to do anything but. Just because he couldn't feel it, it didn't mean getting punched in the face was _fun_.

 

Pete's eyes moved to the curly mop beside Patrick, instantly registering the familiar strands as Joe. Fuck, he missed Joe too. But, Joe had stared him down with something _dark_.

Patrick had been angry, but Joe had been... _disturbed by him_. And sometimes, things like disgust took deeper roots than anger.

 

His eyes flicked over to yet another familiar head. Brown, short and straight- and very decidedly belonging to Andy.

Andy was nineteen now- just how Pete was technically twenty. Still not old enough to drink. Bummer.

Pete had heard a few rumors about why nineteen- and even twenty year olds, were still pacing through a high school's halls. It had been the same all over the country- even all over the world. The year of chaos, death, destruction- and the following recovery, had put studying for tests to the back of kid's minds all over the country- survival and mourning taking first places.

That meant, even if they were smart, kids were being held back to complete the year that had been stolen from them by the brief zombie apocalypse.

 

"-And finally, living organisms can absorb nutrients, and then use them for growth, and things like tissue repair."

 

The girl to Pete's left finally gave a sob so loud, that Mrs. Shannon actually heard her. Her red face dropped into worry and wide eyes as every other soul in the room turned towards the scene. "What's wrong, dear? Are you okay?"

 

The fair-haired girl couldn't speak, but her friend quickly took the gauntlet, speaking with an awkward and timid nod over at the boy next to them.

 

"She- Her dad was killed by a…"

 

The boy next to them was brown-haired and shaky, instantly spluttering into a chant of "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry-" as he clumsily tried to grab his books and pens, trying his best to move somewhere else to relieve the girl's sobs- that were only growing harder as the boy spoke.

Mrs. Shannon spoke up quickly, eyes wide and firm as she motioned for the boy to retake his place. He did so nervously, hazarding glances at the girls and trying to shift his seat away from them as much as he could.

 

"Now, all of you." She exhaled quickly before straightening her back, radiating authority as she did so. "I understand that you may have lost loved ones during the- the…" Everyone knew what she meant, so the woman only supplied a quick, knowing smile before continuing. "But PDS sufferers are not to blame for their actions in their untreated states-"

There were vicious mumbles of outrage, and at them, Pete quickly tugged his hood over his head and dipped it, trying to make himself as invisible as possible. Mikey, who had sat beside him at the start of the class, raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and raised his head, making a point of showing off pale, blotchy skin and white eyes.

 

"-and you have to remember that they are people too. They have rights, and they-"

 

 

A hand moved upwards, strong yet coupled with a curious squint.

 

 

Mrs. Shannon smiled and nodded, "Yes, Joel?"

Joel blinked slowly, before glancing over his shoulder to curl his lip at the jittery brown-haired boy. His gaze fluttered over Pete for a moment, the disgust remaining in his eyes until he turned back to their teacher.

 

"They're not actually alive though." He shrugged, "They shouldn't count as people."

 

The older woman's jaw slipped open as she blinked, not quite sure on what to say, before Joel continued for her.

"I mean- sure, they can move, but-" He nodded at the board, going down the list with a critical voice. "They can't reproduce." Joel spoke as though he were presenting a nature documentary, and something about it made Pete's skin crawl. "Like, the females can't carry kids anymore, and the males don't even have functional _bloodstreams_ anymore so…"

A slow, amused smile spread onto Joel's face, and more followed from other students. A few people laughed and giggled snidely, and Pete glanced to his side in time to find the brown-haired boy's head ducking in raw embarrassment.

Pete was sure that he'd be blushing as bright as a tomato if he did, indeed, have a functional bloodstream.

 

"They don't feel anything- they can't sense stimuli."

 

There were murmurs of agreement as he continued, and Joel's voice only became more and more confident with every word and every second of Mrs. Shannon's silence.

 

"They don't grow. They don't respire. They don't even eat anymore- like-" He gave a breathy, incredulous laugh with another tiny shrug. "They're not alive."

 

"Y'know,"

 

A voice from Pete's immediate right this time, and it was a voice he recognized as Mikey's. He watched the sharp-featured boy shift in his seat, pale, rotten eyes squinting at Joel with threats in them. "We _know_ we're dead. _Partially_ , at least."

 

Joel scoffed, "What d'you-"

 

"No, what do _you_ mean?"

 

The living boy fell silent for a moment, before straightening his spine and clearing his throat. "I think, that the zomb- sorry." He gave Mikey a sickly sarcastic smile, "The _PDS sufferers_ , are costing taxpayers a lot of money."

 

The murmurs of agreement sent a spike of something through Pete, and as Joel's words kept going, the spikes only became sharper and more frequent.

 

"First, it was cleaning up your mess. Second, it was the research to make cure." He was counting off on his fingers now. "Now, it's the _constant_ manufacture of the drug. They don't pay for it- they get it for free! And if they get it for free, then guess who's paying for it now?"

A few mumbles of 'us' and 'taxpayers' filled the room, and Joel seemed satisfied as they reached his ears. His voice was sarcastic and incredulous as he looked around at his fellow peers, rather than at their teacher now- trying to convince their peers rather than authority. His eyes dropped back on the jittery dead boy, "Because if they miss _just one dose_ -" His eyes shot to Mikey, growing infinitely darker.

 

 

"They start eating us again."

 

 

Mrs. Shannon's words failed her, but Joel's only exalted him. "They are risks. Hazards- plain and simple. And honestly- they don't give enough back for us to deal with having them back in society."

More murmurs of agreement, and all the dead students in the class bar Mikey- as few as there were, fell a little more silent.

 

"So what do you suggest you guys do? To protect yourselves, I mean." Mikey only looked amused, even though he was practically sitting in a lion's den at the moment. Joel cleared his throat again, smiling and squinting as though he were preparing himself for the cherry on top to his case.

 

"I think we should dispose of you all- that's what I think we should do, Way. You contribute nothing to our society- if anything, you endanger it."

 

The murmurs of agreement came again, and Pete's face dropped into blankness. He felt stares on the side of his face, and all he could do was duck his head a little more, hide himself a little more.

 

"Joel- that's _enough_." Mrs. Shannon, finally finding her voice, gave Joel a harsh stare. Once he'd fallen quiet enough, she moved her gaze back towards the jittery boy at the back, then to Pete, and then to Mikey, as she tried to give all the dead kids in the classroom a reassuring look that humanity wasn't gonna cull them today.

 

"I'm uh- I'm sorry about the detour there, but-"

 

"Y'know," Mikey's voice was loud and challenging as he leaned forwards, bracing his forearms against the wood of their desk.

 

 

"I think Joel's right."

 

 

Pete's eyes snapped wide as he stared at Mikey with a slack jaw. Jesus Christ- how could he agree with that? Wasn't Mikey super proud about being dead? Why was he-

 

"Maybe we shouldn't be considered humans." His voice was low, and there was a tone to it that made the room feel colder than it really was. Joel's mouth quirked up into a condescending smile, "Finally, something we agree on, Way."

 

Mikey gave another nod, giving Joel a smile back. "Because I think we're better than you."

 

Their teacher found her voice more quickly this time, "Now- Mikey, that is _enough_ \- we are moving on from-"

 

"We don't age, we don't get sick, we don't starve." Mikey was counting off his reasons on his long, pale fingers, "We don't really have to sleep, or eat, or drink- we're more... _advanced_ than you, really." Mikey grinned, seemingly thoroughly enjoying the looks of horror on the living students' faces.

 

Pete glanced around the room with shame buzzing at the tips of his fingers, and the moment he noticed Joe, Andy and Patrick's stunned and disappointed gazes on him, his chest felt empty. Emptier than usual.

With a slight desperation in his whispered voice, Pete jutted Mikey's knee with his own under the desk. "Mikey- _stop_ -"

 

"No, Pete." Mikey's voice was louder now, as well as more confident. "No- don't be ashamed." He shook his head at Pete with a furrowed brow and a breathy laugh at the other dead boy's horror. "We're better than they are. In every single way-"

 

"You are one sick son of a bitch, Way-"

 

"Have you ever heard of the apex predator theory, Joel?" Mikey didn't even wait for an answer before he launched into more, stunning words. "Apex predators are at the top of the food chain. Nothing feeds on them." A sweet smile and a cock of his head, and Pete hated how Mikey's words were calming him down. "What eats rotten flesh?"

 

Joel gaped like a fish out of water, and Mikey's smile spread into a slow, malevolent grin. "Nothing. That's what feeds on rotten flesh- _N_ _othing_ , Joel."

 

Pete wanted to jerk away from Mikey's side, he didn't want to be associated. And yet, the words made his shoulders fall from tension into laxness, and Pete hated how the words were making sense. "But...you know what feeds on human-"

 

" _Fuck you_ , Way-"

 

"We do." Mikey grinned again, "We feed on humans- We are _superior_ to you. So, how about, you guys stop medicating us, and we'll see who wins without your precious-"

 

"Mikey stop it." Pete's teeth were gritted tightly as he glowered at the other dead boy. Mikey's eyes flashed with something unrecognizable, but he only laughed bemusedly and leaned back in his chair as he crossed his arms. He quirked an eyebrow at Pete softly, and gave him an even gentler nod.

"Alright, Pete. I'll stop- but, for _you_." He smiled at Joel again, words dripping off of his tongue like slurs. "I'm not doing it for-"

 

 

"Excuse me?"

 

 

All heads turned to the door, finding an aged woman holding a clipboard. She fiddled with her glasses, her eyes wide behind them as she cleared her throat nervously. Mrs. Shannon sighed and nodded, "Yes, Cheryl, what do you need?"

The woman nodded, looking down at her clipboard with a squint. "I uh- I need all of the- the PDS, sufferers-" She whispered the last part like it was a secret. A secret everybody knew, at this point. "There's a- a meeting about, behavior and, sensitivity to-"

 

"Maybe they'll teach you some fucking decency, Way-"

 

"Go fuck yourself, Joel-"

 

"That's enough." It was Mrs. Shannon's third time saying those words, and somehow, Pete didn't understand why she kept trying them; They obviously had no effect.

The woman nodded at the older lady at the door. Cheryl looked shocked at the language being thrown back and forth between the students, but she quickly cleared her throat and read out the list of alphabetized names. If any of their classmates hadn't know who was dead, they sure as hell did now.

 

"Ella Barnes, Jude Fletcher, Mikey Way, and Pete Wentz."

 

Mikey took a little longer than the others to stand and grab his bag, almost slurring his movements to piss everyone off even more. Pete ducked his head and stalked towards the door quietly, completely ignoring the feelings of three particular stares burning into his skin.  
He ducked out of the classroom successfully, quickly being followed by a sad looking girl he assumed was Ella, and the shaky boy he guessed was Jude.

Mikey emerged a few seconds later, eyes lidded and shoulders lax as he glanced back at the class bemusedly.

The older lady led them away from the science departments, and towards some more obscure rooms instead.

As they arrived, they noticed clumps of other dead kids, who had been pulled out of other classes, standing around behind other adults holding clipboards.

He spotted Brendon and Ryan almost instantly, both giving him and Mikey smiles- along with a tad of enthusiastic waving from Brendon.  
Pete didn't even try a glance at Mikey as they were all shepherded into a hall of sorts, filled with rows upon rows of chairs and all overshadowed by a huge screen that showed the first slide of a powerpoint.

'Re-entering society as a PDS sufferer' read on the screen, and as Pete shuffled into a chair along with everybody else, he could only stare at the screen in silence, all as he ignored Mikey's nudges.

 

He didn't know why those claims of superiority had made sense to him, he didn't know why he'd calmed down at hearing them, but he did know he hated himself for it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Oh fuck- dude, that's crazy!"

Brendon laughed loudly as Mikey vividly recounted the experience during the morning's biology class. Mikey huffed in amusement, nodding and crossing his pale arms. "I should hunt that guy down later, teach him a lesson."

Ryan's eye roll was subtle, but there, and the smile that came with it unnerved Pete. They really thought they were superior. God, it was unthinkable; They weren't superior, they were...they were _freaks_.

Monsters that shouldn't exist, creatures that defied all logic. They were disgusting to look at, terrifying to be near, and in Pete's opinion, the living were right.

 

It would be easier to ship them all off to some deserted island. It would be easier to line them up and execute them, systematically, all over the country...But instead, the living had been merciful, and Pete couldn't have felt more conflicted.

They were terrors, they were killers behind a sheet of paper- they were uncontrollable, at least, for good. One missed dose, one day without the medicine that poisoned their minds and healed their bodies, and they'd go back to eating people, just like Joel had said.

On one hand they were monsters, things that walked around like useless sacks of rotten organs and gave nothing back to the system that kept them sane.

 

And on the other...Mikey had a point, but- Fuck, no. No. They weren't better, they were shells- empty- they weren't-

 

 

"Uh...Pete?"

 

 

Snapping out of his thoughts, Pete's head shot up towards a familiar voice that reached his ears.

 

Andy.

 

Andy was stood at the foot of their table, eyes nervous shifting between Pete and the other pale kids opposite him.

 

Holy shit.

 

Andy.

Pete's motionless heart felt warm as something like relief coursed through him. It was the same feeling as when his mom picked him up early back in kindergarten; That warm relief, that feeling of coming home, that freedom- that _familiarity_ , and Pete couldn't get enough of it.

He'd had a sinkhole in his stomach over the past few days; The dead kids were...okay, but- something about their glassy stares and their sometimes odd jokes struck uncomfortable, nauseous chords within Pete.

 

Ryan and Mikey raised their eyebrows at Pete coolly, but the dark-haired boy only jumped to his feet, smile broad and excited as he put the dead to the back of his mind. Andy was talking to him- that was the only important thing now. "Hey, uh- what's- what's up?"

Andy swallowed deeply, eyes shifting over to the huddle of the dead three and filling with disdain, before they moved back to Pete, and instead, filled with melancholy. "Can I talk to you?"

 

Pete nodded quickly, grabbing his bag and hitching it over his shoulder as he left the canteen with Andy, pacing alongside him without a word to the other three.

 

 

 

 

A short walk later, and they ducked into the library, quickly heading over to a deserted aisle and pretending to browse at books. That was their little trick for talking privately- all four friends had shared it, before...yeah. Before that whole situation.

Pete's chest was still warm, and the feeling was slowly spreading as he started pretending these were the old times. He tried to forget about the stillness of his nostrils, of the emptiness in his chest, of the coldness beneath his skin- Pete only wanted to revel in having his friend back. Just for a little while.

They hadn't even spoken yet, but just being with Andy again was more relieving than Pete could have ever known. He felt as though a weight had been lifted, his fear was subdued, and Pete was _happy_ for what felt like the first time in a long time. And it was only Andy. He could hardly imagine what it would be like to have Joe AND Patrick back too. All four of them together again, god, it seemed like an impossible dream, but- but maybe- maybe one day.

He had to stop himself beaming over at Andy every three seconds as the other boy read over book covers. He didn't wanna be creepy- he was definitely trying to stay out of creepy territory here.

 

"Pete I-" Andy sighed deeply, eyes shifting over the book spines rather than towards Pete's eyes. "I just- look, you're my- you're still my friend, dude- but-"

"I know." Pete nodded, voice quiet and tinged with shame. Andy glanced over at him, stuck somewhere between wanting to speak out and wanting to bail. "It's a surprise."

Pete laughed sadly, nodding and for once, he was glad his eyes couldn't tear up anymore. "Fuck- what d'you think it was like for me?"

Andy joined in the miserable chuckles, subtle head shakes and fond smiles. Pete hadn't felt so relieved since he'd come back to life. "The other guys are just…" Pete nodded quickly, "Need time, I know."

Chewing on his lip, Andy seemed to be debating something within his mind, all as he squinted at Pete. The dark-haired boy furrowed his brow, head cocking a little and voice dropping lower than necessary. "What?"

Andy stared for a moment, before nodding and running his hand over an encyclopedia's thick spine. "Joe...God, dude- Lauren, Lauren…"  
Pete's eyes widened, jaw falling as he shook his head. Lauren, Joe's little sister; He loved her to death, they were so close- fuck, Andy looked somber. What the fuck had-

 

"She died." Andy glanced towards Pete again, before dropping his eyes back on another book. "During the...the- yeah." Andy's smile was small and sad, but Pete- fuck, Pete could hardly muster sound; If he could still breathe, he'd be choking on air right now.

 

"Oh god- fuck-"

 

"So, understandably," Andy paced down the aisle a little more, with Pete following desperately, at his heels like a puppy. "He's not too fond of…" Blue eyes raked over him, and Pete understood.

 

Fuck- if he'd been in Joe's place- if some- some _monster_ , had killed Hillary-

 

Maybe his sister didn't love him anymore, but he'd never stop loving her.

She would always be the baby his parents had tentatively let him hold more than a decade ago. She would always be the toddler that followed him around and only said his name. She'd always be the six year old watching him play bass with a slack jaw. She'd always be the little kid that wanted to sleep in his bed, blaming her nightmares.

Nothing would change that. She could call him a freak, she could insult him, hurt him- and Pete wouldn't care.

 

He couldn't even imagine being in Joe's place.

 

Pete sighed shakily, eyes clenching shut for a moment. "I- I get it." Pete's jaw shifted under his skin, "Does...does he know who...?" Andy shrugged, sighing quietly and sadly. "There were two of them." Pete shuddered, trying to cast the memories that played through his head like a sadistic movie. Fuck- Hillary had been friends with Lauren. They'd been so close- no wonder Hillary hated him so much.  
  
"He said he remembers the faces, but..." Andy smiled softly, eyes dripping with misery. "I dunno. He hasn't seen them."

Pete closed his eyes and rubbed his temples; Again, not needed, but comforting. Pete could hear Andy's almost silent sigh, and there were only a few moments of silence before his voice returned. "Patrick...Patrick's just-"

 

Pete's eyes snapped open, brain fuzzy and still half way between processing Joe's situation, and still trying to register every syllable concerning Patrick.

 

"He's angry, dude." Pete's face dropped, along with his stomach, but Andy paid him no mind, only continuing with a slight sigh. "But...before the- before the whole...thing, he uh…He'd visit your grave."

 

Pete's eyes opened, and his glance up towards Andy was _slow_. "Really? H-How of-"

 

"Every day." Andy shrugged lightly, "Sometimes twice a day- and he'd leave flowers every Monday."

 

 

Pete's heart was _really_ getting pounded lately, and he felt really sorry for it.

 

 

The dark-haired boy shook his head in disbelief, "But-"

Andy huffed, a small smile on his face. "He's got it bad, dude. I know what it's like to have it that bad." Pete smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Yeah, Andy had been completely smitten with Joe- and God, in return, Joe had been the most obvious human being ever.

And even though it had been clear that they wanted to jump each other like, _90%_ of the time, it had taken two whole years for them to sort their shit out. Pete and Patrick had celebrated when they had; They'd thrown unwanted confetti everywhere, popped party poppers, blown party horns- Joe and Andy hadn't been best amused. For like, three minutes, anyway.

 

Pete's smile fell a little. But, him and Patrick...that wasn't...that couldn't- god, and if there had even been _a slither_ of a chance before, there definitely wasn't one now.

 

Andy nudged him in the rib softly, smile broad on his face as Pete only stared for a moment. Holy shit, Andy had touched him- and like, hadn't freaked out about it. Pete wasn't used to that yet, admittedly.

 

Andy's smile broadened as he nodded reassuringly. "It'll be okay. Just give 'em time." Pete gave an inhale and exhale he didn't need, before smiling back at Andy gratefully, eyes feeling teary despite being dry. "Thank you."

 

Andy only chuckled, nudging Pete with his shoulder lightly. "Hey, you're still my friend, aren't you?"

Pete's smile trembled, and he was pretty sure he'd start sobbing and clinging to Andy like an overly attached toddler in a minute. But despite the urges to sink to his knees and cry until his vocal chords refused to make a sound, all while clinging to Andy's leg like an enthusiastic koala, Pete only nodded, smile broad and watery.

 

 

"Yeah, I am."

 

 

 


	5. I’d Trade All My Tomorrows, For Just One Yesterday

 

"My friends,"

The pastor was a stick of a man; Pale fingers that curled around the pulpit, spine straight, and eyes cold. He practically looked dead, but by the very lingering stares he'd give a few people in the church, Pete was pretty sure he wasn't.

"We, as Christians, must turn to God _fully_ \- now more than ever."

Murmurs of agreement, quiet nods, and gazes with fiery agreement in them.

 

Pete had never liked Sundays.

 

"Let me remind you all," His head dipped towards the barely visible bible on the pulpit, and Pete shifted uncomfortably, trying helpless glances in every direction but the pastor.

 

"Of, 1 Corinthians 15:52." Some more elderly and pious members in the church instantly hummed in agreement, minds no doubt flashing with whatever verse he was about to read.

The pastor gazed up over the pews grandly, gesturing with a zealous hand as he spoke in a voice that boomed across the building."In a flash, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, _the dead_ _will be raised imperishable_ , and we will be _changed_."

 

The murmurs had become fully blown mutters, and Pete wished he could disappear, run home, get out of this goddamn church he'd despised since elementary school.

 

On a particular huff, Pete felt a tiny nudge in his ribs, and looked over to find his mom; Her face was apologetic, yet pleading. Maybe begging him to not make a fuss, to not storm out, to not argue- as he used to do.

 

Not anymore though, but it wasn't her fault she didn't know it.

 

Pete dropped his head again, letting the rally cries of the pastor ring like buzzes in his ears. Instead, in order to entertain himself a little, Pete tried a few glances around the church pews.

It was a pretty building, Pete had to admit that. And despite the pseudo Nazi-type rally going on inside it right now, he let his eyes soften and gaze over at the stained glass windows.

They showed no pictures, instead, only tinting any beams of morning sunlight anything and everything between blue, purple, and green.

Then Pete's eyes dropped a little, blinking for a moment at the strain of the eye contacts against them.

 

A familiar mop of strawberry hair, and Pete wanted to run away yet again.

 

But despite his urges to bolt out of the church, go home, tear off the goddamn suit he'd had to wear since he'd been coming to this fucking- Okay. Never mind. Pete was trying to behave here.

His mom had wordlessly asked him to refrain from doing what he really wanted to do, and since Pete had betrayed her enough for an entire lifetime, he was really forcing himself to keep still.

 

His eyes shifted a little more as he leaned back in his seat, craning his neck subtly to catch a glance of another familiar face behind his brother's head.

 

Ryan was sat with his family, skin blotchy and pale, yet eyes a dull brown. His hands were folded in his lap neatly, and he sat with a passive face as the pastor reeled off about how God was going to cast all the undead into a fiery lake. Nice guy.

 

Pete knew Ryan was proud of what he was, somehow; He'd smiled appreciatively at Brendon's jokes about the living, at Mikey's snarls at unsuspecting people, and he'd even spared a slightly mocking chuckle at Pete's desperate efforts to cover up a patch of tan colour that he'd accidentally washed off after chemistry.

And yet, now as they all sat being insulted, he gave no amused laughs, no sarcastic scoffs, and no quirked eyebrows at the pastor- who was speaking firmly now, rather than wildly.

 

"And the great dragon was cast out, that old serpent, called the Devil, and Satan which deceiveth the whole world." Pete's head snapped back to apologetic attention at the stern cutting words. The pastor's lip curled a little as he continued his well-rehearsed speech, and Pete resigned to sitting in the wooden bench motionlessly, eyes glazed over as he tried to take his mind anywhere else.

 

"They are deceivers- Satan's demons wearing the faces of the lost and loved, in order to weaken our hearts, our religion-"

 

Pete's shoulders clenched of their own accord, and he felt his jaw click as he grit his teeth. "Remember- Those who have risen now, the ones who will die a second death- the unbelieving, the vile, the murderers, the immoral, the liars, the idolaters, the cowardly-"

 

Well, Pete was pretty sure he fit like, _three_ of those categories, but _still_ -

 

The pastor turned back to reading passages from the pages in front of him. "They will be consigned to the fiery lake of burning sulphur. This is the second death-"

 

The _second_ death, god, as if the first hadn't been bad enough.

 

"But, my friends, we must remember." The pastor stopped, leaning forwards over the pulpit as long, pale fingers snaked around the wood once more. "We must remember that _Satan_ and his demons shall never inherit the earth, for He is the is the first and the last-"

 

Pete was a satanist now, apparently, cool.

 

There was a lump in Pete's throat as they left the church, finally released from an hour of verbal battering and being called a demon. His mother looked apologetic, but thankful that he'd held his tongue during the whole thing.

 

Pete kinda wanted to correct her- but that would be a contradiction, in and of itself.

 

As they all made their way to the 'after-gathering' that had always made Pete wanna blown his brains out, he distracted himself with the tapping of his soles on the ground.

The sermon and its topic had left a few clergy members staring at him for a little too long. Pete didn't care anymore- fuck, whatever, screw it; If they thought he was a demon that had taken a dead kid's face, so be it.

 

With no hesitation, Pete made a beeline for the corner of the room. He pressed his back into the corner, lowered his head and lazily pushed his hands into his pockets. He felt a slightly lingering stare on him, and while it felt familiar, Pete kept his eyes down.

 

 

The sounds of clinking glasses, chattering and footsteps started filling the room, and Pete only sunk further against the wall as his neck folded in on itself. He distracted himself with the patterns of the wood on the floor; Eyes trailing over the knots, to the streaks, to the rough patches.

 

However, when footsteps ranged a little close to him, Pete glanced upwards, eyes startled and wide, but ready.

 

He didn't expect to find Ryan, admittedly.

 

The pale boy gave him a smile, before leaning on the wall next to him, hand curled around a mug of coffee as he stared out at the room idly. Pete gave the beverage in his hand an odd look, before moving it up towards Ryan's face instead. "You...You're drinking?"

 

"Oh my god dude, these cookies are the best."

 

Pete's head snapped to his right as Brendon slumped on the wall to his other side, hand curled around three biscuits and mouth full of crumbs. Ryan huffed with a smile, but Brendon quickly shook his head fervently. "No- I _can_ taste them, Ryan-"

 

"It's a memory, Brendon. It's not real." Ryan sighed the words before bringing the mug up to his mouth.

He clamped his lips shut, teeth bracing behind them as a further wall as he let the coffee slosh against his mouth. Pete furrowed his brow as the cup came back down, but the paler boy quickly explained. "It makes them less nervous."

Ryan nodded towards the well-dressed living church-goers, all bumbling around and speaking to each other; Sharing the week's gossip with mugs and glasses in their hands.

 

"Ugh- god, Brendon- stop with the cookies."

 

Brendon pouted and took another defiant bite of one of the biscuits, squinting at Ryan with a slight smile soon after. Ryan stifled a smile and raised an eyebrow, "You're gonna get sick."  
Moaning around another mouthful of chocolate chips and crumbs, Brendon tipped his head back against the wall with a sated smile. "Worth it."

 

 

Only a few more moments of Brendon and Ryan's chattering passed, before Pete's eyes locked on Andy- who was moving towards him, with none other than Joe behind him.

Andy's eyes were shifting between the other dead kids that flanked Pete, but Joe's head was completely bowed as he slugged forwards- seemingly, not ecstatic about being there.

 

"Hey Pete."

 

Pete beamed and straightened up, leaning forwards a little but reigning his steps in. "Hey dude."

Andy's eyes were nervous as he glanced over at Ryan, but the pale boy only smiled politely, stayed quiet, and shifted his eyes towards Pete as he took another fake gulp of coffee.

 

"Can uh...can we- I mean, do you wanna...come with?"

 

Pete grinned and nodded eagerly, not even considering where they were going. He pushed off the wall and paced after Andy and Joe without a word to Ryan and Brendon; He'd forgotten about them completely as he bounced next to the other two, beaming and light and just happy to be near his old friends again.

 

That was, until Joe glanced over his shoulder.

 

His eyes froze along with his steps, stare settling on both Brendon and Ryan. Pete stopped too, smile dying on his face as he noticed the suspicious, stunned, and yet, familiar stare. He wanted to reach out to Joe, clap a hand on his shoulder, ask what was wrong...Maybe he could've three years ago, but not now.

Instead, Pete gave Andy a helpless look, and the younger boy jumped into action immediately. "C'mon Joe." He linked a hand around Joe's arm, keeping it platonic as he whispered reassurances to him.

Joe followed without much fight then, and Pete quickly paced at their heels, but not without apologetic- yet curious, glances back at the dead boys standing in the corner.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"I- I know uh...I know we haven't, spoken, in a while, but…"  
  
Joe's jaw writhed under his skin as his eyes flitted around, landing everywhere bar Pete's eyes. Pete only smiled softly, eyes crinkling and sparkling with hope as he timidly chased the gaze, all while Andy stood over them like a parent making his kids apologize to each other.

 

"I don't-" Joe finally found fake hazel eyes, and quickly sighed deeply, his lungs pouring out into the sound before he inhaled softly tried again. "I don't hate you, Pete. I- I don't-"

 

Pete's face blossomed with the brightest, wateriest grin, so much so that Pete could feel the ghost of old aches in his cheeks.

 

The grin coaxed a small smile from Joe, and a broad one from Andy, all before Joe shook his head, smile getting steadily wider under Pete's practically bouncing demeanour. Pete was pretty sure he looked akin to an excitable puppy- hell, he definitely felt like one; Bouncing on his heels, grinning like a madman, eyes crinkling like paper- the whole, happy deal.

  
As the conversation turned to more mundane topics, such as school and instruments and music- Pete had never felt happier. That day with Andy in the library had been left in the dirt by today; Sure, the church sermon had sucked, but this…this was more than enough to make up for it. Hanging out with both Andy and Joe- Pete felt so fucking blessed he was sure he'd be crying if he could.

 

But, all good things must come to an end. And while Pete had always despised that saying, he knew it was true.

 

A familiar mop of strawberry emerged from the church doors, followed by blue eyes peeking around the wood as the one and only, Patrick Stump, inched out of the building. He stood at the top of the steps awkwardly, completely silent as he watched Pete with downtrodden eyes.

Pete twitched a little, one foot sailing backwards to lean away, readying himself to power walk away at any moment.

 

 

He'd give anything to talk to Patrick.

 

 

His soul- if he still had one- he wasn't sure if he did anymore. He'd give his eyes- his eyesight, his hearing- fuck, literally anything.

 

And yet, as Patrick stood by the door, eyes soft and full of faded, whitewashed anger, Pete only ducked his head and flashed Joe and Andy a smile. "Bye guys."

 

He didn't register their answers before he turned and strode away, legs working tirelessly to lurch him forwards and away. He was sure that if he could feel them, his muscles would be aching like hell.

Once his ears could no longer pick up on any voices, Pete glanced over his shoulder. Patrick was still staring after him, mouth parted as though something had been lost on the tip of his tongue. Pete knew that look well, he'd always smile and rub his cheek on Patrick's shoulder, trying to coax the timid words from pink lips.  
  
Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Pete decided to keep going. Although some part of him had screamed at him to go back, to grab Patrick by the collar and sink to his knees, begging for forgiveness and for a fucking conversation- Pete was too far gone to return.

Instead, he set his sights on the road ahead, and marched his way home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pete didn't have house keys.

 

It wasn't like he'd been buried with them, and in the week of being back home, the detail had slipped his mind. So, Pete was left sitting on the brick wall, hands in his pockets, feet tapping out an idle melody, and eyes glazed over as they stared at nothing in particular.

 

A few footsteps made his head turn, and the sight of Hillary- pacing towards the house with keys in her hand, made him straighten up attentively. The girl's moment of soft eyes was quickly replaced by a hard steely gaze, but Pete smiled regardless.

She kept shooting him harsh glances as she ducked towards the door, twisting the keys before shoving inside- thankfully leaving the door unlocked.

  
Pete stepped inside, just catching Hillary quickly darting up the stairs, almost faltering onto all fours. Pete smiled and huffed in amusement, waiting for her to reach the top before heading up; He really didn't wanna freak her out in any way.

 

Much to his surprise though, she stopped.

 

She stood up straight, wrapped a hand around the banister and turned to her brother, eyes squinted curiously but lips curled into a firm frown. "Why were you talking to Joe Trohman?"

 

Pete smiled broadly for what felt like the hundredth time that day- both at the memory and at the fact that she hadn't ended the sentence on 'freak', but his sister didn't seem to appreciate it. Her gaze lingered between disgust and questioning, so Pete quickly supplied an answer, gulping nervously under his sister's stare. "He's- he's my friend…?"

 

Hillary's eyes flickered with something odd for a moment, before she quickly turned and darted up the stairs again. Pete only followed after her door slammed shut, climbing the stairs before ducking into his own room with a sigh.

He instantly moved over to the bed, flopping down on the mattress and sighing softly into his pillows.

 

 

 

 

Pete blinked his eyes open for a moment, shifting his head to the side and watching the specks of dust float in the sunbeams that floated in through the window.

 

It was Sunday, church had only taken an hour out of his morning.

 

Two years ago, he would've been hanging out with Joe, Andy and Patrick right now. They might've made the walk to some fast food joint, chatting and shoving the whole way. They would've gone home, peeled off Sunday best suits and would've changed back into hoodies, jeans and sneakers.

Then, they might've hung out at the park; Pete had always liked the park. They would've talked on the swings, maybe Pete would've been dared to do the wooden agility course, maybe he would've fallen and earned a huge bruise.

 

Pete smiled softly, but he could feel pseudo tears dripping down the sides of his nose. Pete would give anything to go back.

 

He felt so trapped, so alone; His old friends were nervous around him, but Pete couldn't stand his new ones either. They were nice enough but- god, they just _weren'_ _t_ Joe, Andy and Patrick.

Pete sniffed into his pillow sadly, chest growing colder and hands playing with loose strands on the seams of his pillow case.

 

He wished he could go back- god, he'd sell his soul to just go back. One day. One day would be enough. All his tomorrows for a yesterday. But at the same time, Pete wanted to live in that year on repeat- stay there forever, in that one, perfect moment; He wanted to live in their little town in Kentucky, he wanted to eat junk food with his friends, he wanted to go fuck around at the park.

 

But at the same time, he longed to realize the plans they'd made.

 

Before Pete had...kicked the bucket, the four friends had made a plan; They'd move back to Chicago together. They'd work menial jobs whilst they recorded an album, they'd live in an apartment together, they'd live in Illinois again- and Pete had been counting the days until graduation.

 

And then...and then…

 

 

And then Pete had made the biggest mistake of his entire life.

 

 

A soft jolted sob escaped Pete as he buried his face in his arm, begging himself to calm down. There was no point in wishing and wanting now, time wasn't gonna rewind just for him...But god, if he _could_ go back. If he could go back to that cold night in the park, if he could slap the pills out of his own hand, if he could scream sense at himself, if he could just- just, take it back.

 

Pete sighed shakily into the pillow. He couldn't take it back. Not anymore. Fuck, Pete didn't know if he was lucky to be back or not.

 

Sure, on the plus side, he could rebuild some semblance of a life. He could rebuild relationships he'd broken because of his own _stupid_ actions, he could watch the dust dance in the sunbeams, he could feel the warmth of a pillow against his cheek. He could smile, he could laugh, he could _live_.

 

But if Pete had never woken up at all, he would've ended a lot of suffering. His own suffering, his family's suffering- fuck, he wouldn't be a burden to them. He'd be a dark splotch on their memories, not a walking talking reminder of horrible times. Not an awkward explanation, a dark figure that didn't fit their picture perfect family.

His friends would've kept living their lives, they would've moved on, they would've found a new bassist; Maybe the new guy wouldn't have been so selfish, so unstable. Maybe Patrick would've fallen in love again. Maybe he would've forgotten about Pete, maybe he would've been happy.

 

The world would've kept spinning, and nobody would have noticed Pete disappear.

 

But now he was back, and he wasn't gonna be dying any time soon. At least, _naturally_ , that was.

 

Pete still had the power. He could end it just as quickly as it had begun. A razor across the arm, a pair of scissors in an eye- fuck, Pete didn't know what could kill him, but he'd try it all at this point.

 

One more week wouldn't have made a difference, right? Nobody would've gotten too reattached in such a short time, right? Pete could still go back to the earth, back to the worms, back to the darkness, _right?_

 

 

He still had the choice...right?

 

 

Pete exhaled into his pillow, before leaning up and shaking bad thoughts away. No, no- he couldn't do that. He couldn't do that to his mom again, to his dad- he just couldn't.

 

And god, what if he _failed?_

 

What if his parents came home to their undead son, a shotgun in his hand and a burst head, but still moving, still speaking? Pete couldn't bear with more horrified, tear-filled stares, more sobs, more desperate hugs, more furious screams- Pete just couldn't do it.

 

 

Pete raised his head, eyes quickly spotting his old red and black bass. He smiled softly, watching the metal strings glint in the sun. He stood and paced over to it, letting his fingers skin cold surfaces.

He'd always loved this bass; His parents had bought it for him on a birthday, red and black and _new_. Not the mention expensive, but they'd reassured him it was okay.

Pete's lips quirked into a smile as he traced the red outline on its body, a combination of bat wings and a heart- all topped off with a skull in its center. The epitome of edgy, and what had started as a dumb little doodle in the corner of Pete's English homework.

He'd liked the idea of using it as a logo, he'd also liked the word 'Clandestine' for a long time; It was dark and edgy, but elaborate and obscure enough to fit his- as Joe had laughed, 'hipster' tastes.

 

 

Without a rhyme or reason in his mind, Pete picked up his bass guitar, hand around its neck tenderly as he moved over to his bed.  
Flopping the bass on the mattress, Pete ducked under the bed and fished out his old amp- that had also been kept clean by his parents.

 

Pete's heart stung yet again.

 

He worked quick, deft, and practiced routines, until he was sat on his mattress, bass on his knee and hands poised over the strings. That was another plus of being alive: Playing the bass guitar he loved so much.

Music had always been Pete's safe place, his place of rest, his panic room, his haven. Pete's mind was fuzzy as he played out old deep melodies, stuff he'd half-assed back in the day. But, as his ears cleared up, Pete smiled softly at the realization that his fingers played out _Patrick's_ melodies- not his own.

  
Patrick _had_ always been better at the music. Pete was more of a lyricist, if he did say so himself.

 

Patrick's favorite bass lines rang from the amp as Pete's fingers worked automatically, brow furrowing in absent concentration. Patrick _had_ always liked writing the trickiest bass lines for him, but Pete had always been up to the challenge.

 

Kinda.

 

 

 

 

The time seeped by, and before Pete knew it, he was playing to a dim room. The light stopped shining through the window, and Pete could just about spot dots of streetlights beyond the glass.

And yet, rather than going downstairs, rather than checking in on mom, dad, or Andrew- even Hillary, despite the whole 'freak' thing, Pete only pressed his back against the wall and _played_.

 

All while keeping his ears pricked for the quiet, attentive breathing that came from behind his door. Pete smiled; He hadn't lost his hearing, despite what some might think. And the lack of sounds ringing in his own body had made everything that much clearer.

From the high pitch of the quiet, breathy sounds- as well as by their sheer familiarity, Pete knew it was Hillary.

  
Half of him wanted to go open the door, invite her in, maybe even teach her a few chords. But the other half knew that would ruin this peaceful moment. This mutual acceptance, this silence only punctuated by low bass guitar and breathing. This moment, where maybe, just maybe, Hillary only heard her brother- not a monster.

 

 

So, eyes falling shut and fingers dented by strings- Pete played.

 

 

 

 


	6. You Were Too Good To Be True, Gold Plated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do you guys feel about historical stories?

 

"You knock."

 

"Wha- No way- _you_ knock-"

 

"I'm not knocking, you knoc-"

 

"I'm not knocking!" Patrick hissed at Joe with a furrowed brow, voice low as the three boys tried to keep their presences unknown, at least, for a little while.

 

Pete hadn't come to school that day, and naturally, Patrick's mind had jumped to the worst possible conclusion. He hadn't said anything about it though, but at this point, Joe and Andy could read him like a children's book.

After a lot of awkward dancing around the subject, Andy had finally taken the reigns, dragging his two friends over to Pete's house after school.

 

Patrick had to admit, the lack of ambulances outside had made the swirling nausea in his stomach calm.

 

The whole day he'd been picturing that cold, rainy day two years ago; Blue flashing lights, people darting back and forth, and Patrick hadn't even been able to _see_ -

 

Never mind. Never mind, there was no point in thinking about it now. Patrick had put it behind him. It was completely, and totally, and 100%, _behind him_.

 

But now, as they stood outside the familiar, wooden door they'd stood outside of a million times, nobody could bring themselves to knock.

Pete...Pete was still Pete. A part of Patrick knew that, but- but, fuck- the other made his heart speed up in the worst way. It was that choking, smothered feeling that had enveloped him that night they'd all risen, that instinctual fear that had made him bolt from the graveyard- the panic that had saved his life, in the end.

And god, Patrick couldn't even begin handling the anger in a healthy way. The only times he'd tried to let it out had ended with bloody knuckles, ripped strands of hair, and dents in his bedroom wall. Tears, screaming, and finally, crying himself to sleep- and that had been a good day.

 

When Patrick saw Pete in that bathroom...fuck.

 

There was a moment of clarity; Like the clouds parted, the heavens descended, the godly rays shone done and blessed him like he'd never been blessed before.

And then, it'd all collapsed into a boiling pail of fiery resentment. Every punch, every grunt, every insult- and Patrick hadn't even really been aware of what he'd been doing.

It'd been like a dream, as though reality had melted away, as though no consequences would come back to haunt him. But now, there _were_ palpable consequences, and Patrick was regretting every knuckle that had beat against Pete's face.

 

Pete was avoiding him, and god, if that didn't make everything a thousand times worse. Patrick understood; Hell, if he'd been repeatedly punched in the face, he wouldn't go cuddle up to the culprit. But- but, fuck, Patrick missed Pete- and Jesus Christ, it'd been a complete shock but- it had been the answer to his prayers.  
Pete was back. Pete was back, and alive, and- _him_. And the first thing Patrick had done was punch him in the face.

 

 

Nice going, dude. Nice going.

 

 

"Jesus- fine, I'll knock." Andy, finally fed up with their bullshit, stuck his arm between them and rapped his fist on the door. The three of them stood up straight on instinct, pulling polite expressions and voices when Pete's mom opened the door.

Her dark eyes flashed in surprise for a second, before she gave them the same, kind smile she'd given them a million times before. Back during middle school days- hell, even elementary school days (for Joe and Andy, anyway), they would always stand at the door, polite smiles and a question of 'Can Pete come out to play?'

Although, now, there were less grazed knees, cartoon plasters, and unlaced sneakers- but then again, habits change.

 

"Hi, Mrs. Wentz, uh-" Andy, once again, took the reigns, seeing as his younger friends had frozen in silence at the proximity to a member of the Wentz family. "Is- Is Pete, home?"

She nodded quickly, but there was something nervous behind her eyes that made Patrick feel bad. "Yes- come in, I'll uh-" Mrs. Wentz stepped to the side, opening the door a little wider to let the three boys through. They took awkward stands in the middle of the room, before Andy quickly wrapped his hand around Patrick's arm and pushed him towards the staircase with a quick reassurance to Mrs. Wentz.

 

"Patrick'll go get him- it's okay-"

 

Bitch. What.

 

Patrick made a sound of discontent, but Andy's stare was fleetingly firmer than he'd ever seen it. So, with a glared squint that only lasted a few seconds, Patrick trudged up the familiar steps of the Wentz home, and headed towards the familiar white door of Pete's bedroom.

They'd completely obliterated that door once; They'd been young, stupid, and completely wasted- and, a couple of dares combined with Pete's _excellent_ ideas, had resulted in a totaled door, only rendered splinters on the floor. His parents hadn't been pleased.

 

Patrick stopped in front of the door, breathing heavy in his lungs, and skin breaking into goosebumps at an invisible chill he wasn't too sure really existed.

He balled a hand into a fist, before slowly moving it up to hover over the wood.

 

Patrick breathed.

 

And Patrick knocked on the door.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pete knew he technically didn't need sleep, but that didn't mean he was gonna pass it up.

 

Bed was the only place he wasn't stared at, judged, talked to- the only place he could just hide from the world. So when a knock at the door forced him to open his eyes, Pete wasn't best pleased.

 

He thumped out of bed, not bothering with contacts and covering pale skin; Honestly, whichever asshole had made him get up could deal with it. His parents- hell even Andrew, had seen him without covering up before, it wouldn't kill them to see it once more, and Pete was too fucking tired to care.

He twisted the handle and tugged the door open, eyes already rolling and sweater paw already rubbing at his eye as his voice took a naturally, annoyed lilt. "What d'you"

 

Patrick.

 

Okay.

 

Pete hadn't been expecting that.

 

He froze, the words on his tongue dying as he found wide, blinking powdery blue eyes and plump rose lips parted in- fuck Pete hadn't put his contacts in, motherfucker-

  
Pete slammed the door without an explanation, lurching over to his bedside table and shoving his contacts in with no finesse- "Uh- Just- Just a sec, I just-"

 

"Uh- yeah, yeah- it's okay, I- I should've-"

 

Shit, he'd just slammed the door in Patrick's face. _Fuck_.

Pete hadn't really stopped to consider why exactly Patrick was in his house as he bolted over to the dresser, simultaneously tugging clothes on and covering any visible skin with the light, life-like paste that made his skin itch.

Once he was sufficiently covered, and looked sufficiently alive, Pete opened the door with a huge, yet extremely nervous grin. "H-Hey dude."

Patrick's Adam's apple bobbed as he gave Pete a tiny smile, before taking a step backwards. A sound died in Pete's throat as Patrick nodded towards the stairs, "Uh- we're uh-"

Pete was about to ask what the hell Patrick meant, before the boy turned and practically ran down the stairs.

  
Pete blinked for a moment, admittedly confused, before quirking an eyebrow and slowly following, by the time he'd finally ducked his head enough to see the living room, his jaw loosened from the tightly wound screws in them a moment before.

 

Andy, Joe and now- Patrick, were all hovering around the room, pulled towards the center by some kind of nervous, gravitational force. Pete blinked and trod down the remaining steps, before forcing himself to stop at the end of the banister, hand twisting and nails picking at the wood there.

 

"Uh... _hey_ guys."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick couldn't believe what he'd seen before. It didn't feel real- especially not now, that Pete stood beside them; Skin golden and inked, and eyes green tinged, flickered with hazel. They all paced down the street in a pace that had fallen uniform, and Patrick had inched himself away from Pete as much as possible.

 

The sight of rotten, white eyes, pale blotchy skin- that paleness, that _deadness_ \- fuck, it made Patrick feel sick. That thing hadn't been Pete, but- but it _had_ , in a way.

 

He glanced over to his side, eyes finding the older boy that stood at the other end of their row. His shoulders were bowed, and his head was dipped; His neck craned painfully, and his footsteps seemed unsure, timid, and _following_. Patrick's brow furrowed, that was weird.

Pete had always been a leader. Proud, confident, and the bubbliest in the entire universe. He'd always had a goofy grin on his face, his steps would bounce more than land, and some dumb joke would always be falling from his lips.

 

But now, Pete was...quiet.

 

His eyes seemed dull, and while his glances and stifled smiles indicated he was somewhat happy to be here, it didn't feel the same. He seemed so tired, so... _unenthusiastic_. It worried Patrick, it made something tighten in his chest; Made his joints feel like screws, made his tendons tighten- something felt off.

 

But Patrick put his thoughts aside, or, more like, _forced_ them aside.

 

Their silent trudging was finally thankfully interrupted by the ambient sounds of the town McDonald's they'd stepped into.

The chattering of orders, machinery clanging in the distance, and a few kids bouncing around whilst being scolded at by parents was enough to break the awkwardness into amused smiles, as the four boys sat down at a table.

 

It was unlike them to order nothing, but something about the whole situation had killed appetites dead.

Pete was quieter than usual, once again. His hands had fallen into his lap, fingers fidgeting with the fabric on his knees as he gave tiny, licked glances at the others.

The silence was stifling, and Patrick was about to try and dive out the window, before Joe, oddly enough, interjected.

 

"So uh...how- how have you been?"

 

Pete blinked, head shooting up and eyes showing questioning, as if he was wondering if the question had been for him. Fuck, two years ago, Pete would've yelled out an answer- even if the question very obviously wasn't for him. This...this timid Pete, this nervous, 'walking-on-eggshells' kid freaked him out, but...made his heart hurt, simultaneously.

 

What the fuck had happened to him? What had _made_ him that way? Patrick made it a mission to find out as Pete answered the question with a stutter in his voice.

 

"I've- I've been good, I uh…" Pete laughed nervously, shoulders jolting in an awkward shrug. "Had a lot of free time, don't really need to sleep anymore, so...so…" The air went cold at the somber reminder of what Pete was, and the dark-haired boy noticed his mistake immediately.

Golden hands gripped jean clad thighs, and Pete worried his lip between his teeth- but all before Joe spoke up once more with a long suffering sigh.

 

"Okay- fuck, look, guys." He shared a stern stare between the other three, leaning forwards and bracing his forearms on the table. "We're friends, alright? Have been for a long time- and just because...just-" A grunt stifled in Joe's throat as his tongue twisted with the loss of words. He closed his eyes for a moment, and sighed deeply, before staring Pete in the dull eye.

 

"You're dead, _alright?_ "

 

Pete's face fell a little, but Joe quickly picked up where he'd left off. "But that's not your fault- and, Jesus- okay, okay, let's just- let's just get it out of our system, let's just ask everything and then, and then, move the hell on."

 

There was more silence, stunned and shocked for only a moment, before Andy spoke up with a solemn, oddly sonorous voice.

 

 

"What was it like?"

 

 

Pete blinked, eyes wide for a moment before he nodded with realization flashing over them. "It uh...it was dark."

Patrick stared blankly, not quite believing his ears- but at the same time, knowing them to be true.

 

Patrick had never really been religious, and sure, if anyone asked, he'd definitely say there was only the void after death but...but...some part of him hadn't really believed it.

Some part of him had _hoped_ that, that God might- that he was real, that he'd have some semblance of _rest_ and _paradise_ , but- but Pete had actually died. He'd died- he'd seen the other side, and...and there was nothing? So, all of it was for nothing? Really- all of it had been pointless? All the searches for answers, the stories, the parables- all of it was fake?

 

His prayers had never actually been heard?

 

 

"Just- _black_."

 

 

Patrick was pretty sure Pete could read his mind.

 

The dark-haired boy shrugged lightly, leaning back and letting his shoulders brace against the booth seat. "Or...I dunno, maybe I wasn't good enough to get into heaven. Maybe that was, purgatory or something-"

"Dude," Andy furrowed his brow sternly; He'd never liked his friends self-deprecating, that was true. "What do you mean, 'not good enough'-"

 

"I mean that, there's a reason not _everybody_ came back."

 

Patrick blinked oddly, but Joe beat him to the punch. "What- Not everybody came back?" Pete quickly shook his head, eyes wide. "Nah dude, uh...only like, fuck what was it...89% did."

Andy tilted his head, mind still struggling to process the information, if the look on his face was any indication; Patrick understood, he felt the same. "So, who didn't?"  
  
"The babies- just the really really young, mostly." Pete's eyes shifted down to the table, "The innocent, I guess."

Joe was gaping a little, but the words kept flowing despite the shock. "But...you aren't a bad guy, like-"

 

"I'm...a liar, an unbeliever, cowardly-"

 

"Dude, _no_ -"

 

"I fit into three of those- categories, whatever. Four, if God doesn't like below the belt shit." Patrick's throat constricted at that, shoulders tensing a little as he locked up nervously.

The 'below the belt' dilemma, and the jokes that came with it, had always given Patrick pause, but as the topics moved on, Patrick couldn't help but drag his attention away from his thoughts.

 

 

"What does the medicine do? D'you really have to take it every day?"

 

"It makes chemical reactions and, like, I think it makes cells I can't, anymore? I think it also rebuilds brain cells, or something, but…" Pete trailed off with a tiny shrug, and Patrick was struck with an interest about said medicine. Side effects were always a big deal, maybe that had something to do with- "-And yeah dude, every day."

 

 

"Can you feel, anything or…?"

 

"Nah, it's all kinda...numb? Like, distant, I dunno." To make a point, Pete stuck his arm out to Joe, with an offer of "Pinch me."

The pinch looked sharp, hard, and deep enough to draw blood, but Pete didn't flinch or hiss, and instead, kept his place.

 

 

Time rolled on, and more questions came with it. By the end, Pete actually looked tired- the whole 'zombie' thing excused.

They trudged to Pete's house at first, footsteps slow and journey ringing with chattering and laughter- albeit, weaker, than it had once been.

It was early days, Patrick supposed. One day, they might be back to normal. Maybe. God, Patrick hoped so; The silence was killing him, slowly but surely.

  
Patrick glanced up at the sky, almost in tandem with Pete, and their strangled gasps came at almost the same beat.

 

It was dark.

 

And Pete, definitely was not supposed to be out in the dark.

 

"Let's uh...let's hurry."

 

Nobody argued.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The men across the street were quiet, but their hidden stares made Pete's skin crawl. No, no- ignore it. It's okay, you're home- they can't hurt you. There are witnesses, it's okay-

 

"Oh hey, Joe- I needed to talk to you-" Andy was obviously hiding a smile, and Pete totally noticed the slight glare Patrick gave him.  
  
Joe nodded with a full grin, not caring about hiding his mischief. "Oh yeah dude- yeah, I remember, let's uh- be right back guys-" And with that, Joe grabbed his boyfriend by the arm and pulled him down the street.

Patrick's eyes stayed on them as they ducked the corner, and the anger in the powdery blues made Pete's stomach swirl.

 

And when they moved to him, Pete felt like he was gonna throw up.

 

His throat tightened in a pseudo way, and Pete could practically taste bile on his tongue, despite knowing none was there.

Patrick only bit his lip for a second; Not in a playful way, in more of a 'I'm murdering my bottom lip' type way. And yet, the strawberry-blonde boy glanced up at him, showing his lip mercy and pulling his lips tight instead. His eyes held something determined, something that out-shined every slither of nerves or fear.

 

"I uh...It was nice to- to see you." Patrick's voice was small, smaller than Pete had heard it in a long time.

 

Hell, _this_ kid didn't feel like the one that had pounded his fists into his face a few days ago.

 

But despite the slight fires in Pete's chest, he nodded and smiled softly. "It was nice to see you too." Pete could see the men behind Patrick's head, and while he wanted to keep Patrick close for as long as possible, the other half of him wanted to retreat inside; To his mom and dad, to certain safety, to his _bed_.

 

And since he knew Patrick would never follow, he tilted his head softly, one foot sailing back to lean away. "I uh...see you- see you tomorrow, I'll be at school- I was just like, _tired_ , today-"

 

 

"Can I come over tomorrow? After school, I mean-"

 

 

Pete blinked. Eyes wide and jaw slacking under his skin, he gave a nod as his mind blanked with a flash of white.

 

As Patrick nodded and walked away, pacing down the street with a tiny mumble of goodbye, Pete still wasn't sure if it'd been a dream or not.

 

 

 


	7. We'll Do Whatever Just To Stay Alive

 

Patrick was going into the lion's den prepared.

 

A tireless night of research had left his eyes ringed with black, and strings of yawns insisted on escaping him as he trudged down the streets, his soles tapping on the concrete in steady beats.

 

He'd been nervous, of course he'd been nervous; A sleepless night, too much coffee and too many advice forums had only made him more jittery than usual.

 

After years, _years_ of silence, of relentless thoughts, of wishing and wanting- Patrick was finally gonna do it.

 

 

 

 

He was gonna tell Pete how he felt.

 

 

 

 

Pete's house wasn't too far from his own, but it wasn't close either; A few streets over, across a few alleys, and of course, past a few streets, and Patrick was finally approaching the old, familiar street.

 

But...as he turned the corner, his eyes were blinded by violent flashes of blue, pulsing across everything and everyone- and all as high pitched sirens drowned out uniform chattering.

 

Patrick's ears were attacked by the sounds as he moved forwards in a trance, eyes wide and jaw slack. Why were there ambulances? God- why were there so many-

The medical staff, dressed in uniform and crowding into the back of the ambulance- hands rushing as they seemingly prepared something, all while policemen clad in their own dark standard clothes stood by the house's front door.

With enough squinting, Patrick could just about make out the sight of Pete's parents; Mr. and Mrs. Wentz, the perpetually friendly parents that seemed just about perfect, only now, they didn't look perfect at all.

His mom was half collapsed in his dad's arms, eyes wide and hand trembling over her mouth as tears trailed down her cheeks. Pete's dad didn't seem much better, if anything he looked just as shaken. And god- Andrew and Hillary; Cowering behind their parents legs, eyes wide and so young looking, so _scared_.

 

Patrick couldn't see Pete.

 

He- he couldn't see Pete, and fuck- fuck where was- why was there an ambulance, but Jesus Christ- where was _Pete?_

 

Everything was a blur, a daze, and spinning as Patrick stepped forwards, weaving and squeezing past different people, while his mind blanked and flooded all at once. His heart felt like a jackhammer in his chest, his stomach felt like a pit of vipers, and every drop of blood in Patrick's veins froze over as he caught the sight inside the ambulance.

 

Pete.

 

It was Pete.

 

Flanked by doctors, tubed desperately being pushed and poked into him, chattering, screens, equipment, hands pressing-

 

"You can't be here-" Patrick's words were a pained squeak in his throat as a cop pushed him back, eyes serious and voice gruff, words reduced to ringing as Patrick stopped processing thought. He couldn't even fight it, his legs were noodles, his knees were earthquakes, and all of Patrick was frozen like a lake in winter.

 

He stood at the edge of the street, far from the man that had pushed him back, and he watched.

 

And Patrick watched Pete die behind metal doors.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thunderous knocking was the first thing that Pete's ears registered that day.

 

There had been hard rain pelting over the town all day, and the strong pitter patters had eventually faded into soft, faux heartbeats that kept Pete placated somewhat.  
And yet, the harsh knocking had cracked his peace into shards, and Pete could help glaring as his eyes fluttered open.

His annoyed gaze found a dark room, dimly lit by faded streetlights that tried to shine through his curtains. Pete squinted, sleepily wondering if the knocking that had stirred him awake had been some echo of the past, some part of a dream he didn't remember, some trick his brain had played on him.

 

But then it came again.

 

Pete sat up a little further, hand reaching out to tug the beside lamp on. The warm glow filled the room, and with more and more knocks filling the room, Pete slumped out of bed and paced over to the center of the room. Ears sharp and pricked, he tried to pinpoint the noise, but it only took one, hard slam against- what he was pretty sure was his window, before his head snapped towards the still curtains.

There was a lump in Pete's throat, and his spine felt icy as he paced over cautiously. What the hell was knocking at his window at- his eyes shot over to his alarm clock, reading 1:41 in soft purple light. Jesus, it was a little early for- for whatever was pounding at the glass.

On second thought, maybe it was just a branch or something. Maybe an injured bird, maybe it was just a loose piece of roof- but Pete wouldn't know until he pulled back the curtains.

 

One hand looping into the fabric, and Pete pulled it back, shoulders tensed and stomach firm for the big reveal, like a magician pulling back the screen of his trick.

 

 

And it was Patrick.

 

 

A vision of soaking, dripping, and wet-dark hair, a hastily fastened plastic raincoat, and red, cold to the bone fists on his window.

 

Pete's brain fried in a mere second of meeting a powder blue gaze, and without a rational thought in his head, Pete tugged the window open and stepped back, letting the redhead climb through.

  
There were a lot of things Pete hadn't considered. For one, why was Patrick here at- he checked the clock- 1:41 in the morning?

What the hell was his _motive_ for being here? Why hadn't he used the door like a normal human being? Why hadn't he waited until a normal, humanly time to come over? He was due to come visit anyway, so why, the actual fuck, was-

 

 

 

"I love you."

 

 

 

Patrick's voice was on the verge of a break, and for some reason, Pete's brain had latched onto the warbled note, rather than the words that had come attached to it.

The little crack in Patrick's voice looped in his head, on repeat and getting louder with each iteration, leaving Pete standing in firm place, feet planted and face blank and gormless.

 

Patrick's eyes blinked quickly, his chest rising and falling, and his frame trembling with something indistinguishable between cold and fear.

The smaller boy stepped forwards, soaked hands fisting into Pete's old, tattered, hand-me-down hoodie that was only worn in bed these days. His eyelids twitched and his mouth parted in breathy, shaken inhales, all while those gorgeous eyes Pete had always adored stayed solely on his face. And for a moment, Pete forgot he wasn't wearing eye contacts.

 

But when it hit him, it hit him like a ton of bricks; Crushing his spirit in a matter of seconds, and pulverizing any peace that the moment had brought. Pete's eyes shifted over to the bedside table, locking onto the box of eye contacts he always kept close, before trying a desperate move towards them.

 

 

The last thing he heard was a strangled gasp before his mind went white, electrified and glorified as the warm slide of Patrick's lips met the cold slot of Pete's.

 

 

Everything locked shut and broke free at the same time, and all Pete could feel was Patrick. The rest of the world had melted away into dripping darkness, a mass of unimportant details and a cloud of sounds that were, now, only buzzing like locusts.

Pete swore his fucking life had been leading up to this point, and as his mind finally stuttered back into control, wounded and crawling, dragging itself back to the steering wheel- his eyes finally fell shut.

 

And Patrick pulled away.

 

The strangled whine in Pete's throat was quickly muffled as the older boy lurched forwards, all inhibitions left at the goddamn window. Pale hands laced through soaked hair, red-cold ones fisted into an old sweater, and both of them were dropped into the buzzing peace of each other. Pete felt electrocuted. And no, not in an 'execution' kinda way, more in a 'sparks' way; Everything from his fingertips, to his spine, to his goddamn brain- Pete felt _alive_. Actually alive, for the first time in, in- years; Fuck, even before- even before he'd-

 

"I love you- shit-" Patrick broke away from Pete with a cracked whine, hands moving to desperately caress every patch of bare skin he could reach; Red fingers stroked over Pete's jaw, his neck, his cheeks- all while a mouth swollen with nervous bites reeled off the most incomprehensible shit Pete had ever heard come from the younger boy.

 

"I love you- I had to, I had to- I couldn't- I- fuck I love you, I love you so much- I'm so fucking stupid- I-" Patrick gave a gasped sigh, as though a spike had poked into his stomach, and without a warning or another word, Patrick fell forwards into Pete, arms tight and coiling around Pete's shoulders.

Pete could feel the buzzes of Patrick's desperate, incoherent words in his neck, and while he would've been content standing there forever- wrapped in Patrick and being confessed to, Pete knew Patrick was still alive. And he was cold. As people who were alive tended to get.

 

With tender hands, Pete pried the strawberry haired boy from his chest- only to be met by a desperate gasp. "Where- what are you-"  
  
"Patrick," Pete ran a thumb over a sharp cheekbone, not missing the way the redhead shivered; He knew it was partly from the cold, but hey, a boy could dream.

Words were failing him under the wide, broken and pleading gaze, so Pete only laid a soft peck on a freezing forehead, before ducking away towards the bathroom.

 

 

Towel in hand, and Pete returned to Patrick pacing around the bedroom, chattering to himself and seemingly rehearsing his words. He froze as soon as Pete re-entered, eyes wide but lips trying a tiny, completely nervous smile.

"You should-" Pete nodded towards the soaked raincoat, and Patrick quickly shrugged it off without a second word.  
The fluffy towel was held out in an offer of breaking the ice that had frozen them both over, but Patrick didn't even glance at it; Instead, his eyes stayed on Pete.

  
It'd become darker, softer, and plain wanting, and before Pete had even tried a sound, Patrick was on him once more, all grabbing, frantic hands and warm, slick lips.

Pete sighed into it, head falling into a lazy tilt and mind numbing pleasantly; God, Patrick was better than any drug that had ever breached his system, and while there hadn't been _that_ many- really mom, not that many- Pete had never felt higher.

Patrick's hands grabbed at his waist, then his hips, and half of Pete wanted to tell him he was wasting his time in that department, but the other never wanted him to stop.

 

And then Patrick sniffed, hard and violent, along with tiny, blocked sound that Pete definitely did not miss. Patrick was cold- and if his hair stayed that wet, he'd get sick. And a sick Patrick was something no human being should have to deal with.

 

"Patrick-" Breaking away from a sweetly kissing mouth, Pete took to pressing soft pecks all over red cheeks and a pale forehead, as his hands sneakily pressed the towel over soaked strands.

His hands rubbed over the hair, and as Patrick leaned into the soft kisses, he whined in the back of his throat and completely forgot about the cold that had no doubt settled into his bones.

 

A kiss to the tip of a red nose was all Patrick needed to melt into Pete, body sagging and face pressing into his collarbones as he sighed deeply. Pete pressed his lips to slightly dryer strands that were slowly retaking their lighter colour, mind still thrumming and not fully understanding the situation.

 

He was half-convinced this was a dream. A really nice dream sure, but just a dream.

 

And then Patrick pulled back, those gold-plated eyes staring up at his own; His own that were white and rotten and disgusting-

 

"I love you." The words were whispered, but trembling, and as Patrick's hands curled into his hoodie, a spike of fear shot through Pete's lower back, forcing his spine to straighten.

"I love you-" They were a wounded groan this time, and spoken as though a betrayal had coaxed them out. "I can't- I couldn't- oh god, god. I tried- I tried-"  
Patrick trembled for a beat, and Pete's nerves were slowly rising like lava in his throat, the volcano threatening to spill over any minute.

 

"Why did you do it, Pete- _oh fuck_ \- why-" Patrick's face was closer to his own, the smaller boy had rocked up onto his toes in a ditch attempt to be imposing. "Why- answer me. You have to- you have to tell me- no, fuck- I _need_ to know."

 

Pete couldn't answer. He physically couldn't. The words stuck in his throat like glue, and in a second, Patrick's hands were _harder_.

 

"I was- I was gonna tell you. That night- that- I stayed up- fuck-" The words were groaned, but they quickly became gritted; Pete fell into a trance, watching the bones writhe under Patrick's skin, listening to the bones of his teeth grating together. "That fucking day- fuck- if I- one day- one day, fuck- why did you-" Patrick's face fell into his neck with a sob, and Pete still couldn't answer.

A part of him was beating on the bars of the cage, screaming his answers and keening for forgiveness, but the other, more in-control part, kept him quiet and frozen.

 

Even when Patrick pushed him over to the bed, Pete still couldn't find his words. The smaller boy straddled his lap, eyes full of tears and lips still trembling as every one of his moves and actions were fueled by unbridled desperation.

The lips were on his neck, the hands were on his chest, the hips were grinding downwards in a roll, and all of it was distant, numb even. It was like everything was being felt through the visor of a horse tranquilizer, but somehow, Pete's mind shut up just enough to let it translate pressure into memory.

The lips were warm, wet, the hands were cold, wanting, the hips were pure sin- that went without saying, but as Patrick sobbed into his dead pulse again, Pete's brain snapped back into place like a taut elastic band.

 

He sat up in an instant, Patrick toppling down into his lap before he pushed the smaller boy back, eyes reassuring but serious. Fuck, he'd want nothing more than to sleep with Patrick- in any way, shape or form they could still manage it, but Pete wasn't stupid. Or an asshole.

 

Patrick was distraught; The tears, the trembling lip, the shaky limbs- all of it pointed to distress, and Pete wasn't about to take advantage of it.

 

"It's okay." With nothing but the small, simple phrase on his lips, Pete pulled Patrick into his chest and wrapped his arms around him. "And I'm-" Pete sighed shakily, body jolting in a tiny shudder as for the first time, the full consequence of what he'd done to Patrick, at least, crashed down into him.

 

Nobody had let it happen yet, not fully. Sure, he'd been given sad glances and pitying looks, but nobody had broken down; Nobody had kicked, screamed, sobbed- nobody had made him feel like shit for what he'd done. Pete had felt that by himself, but fuck, he wanted somebody to fucking _crucify_ him. Not literally, of course; Pete wasn't _that_ much of a sadist.

  
"Patrick-" He took the redhead's cheeks in his hands, eyes soft and begging for something he didn't really want Patrick to give; Pete didn't deserve forgiveness. He'd hurt so many people, he'd caused so much suffering. And not only in his death, he'd been just as much of a dark, looming cloud before. Now, it was only sharper, like an unpleasant reminder.

And yet, he stared into powder blue, golden plated eyes, and he _begged_.

 

"I'm sorry- I'm so, so- I-" Pete's voice broke into dry sobs, and while the dryness in his eyes felt insincere to _him_ at least, Patrick sobbed with him. Red-tinged hands grabbed at dark strands softly, pulling the other boy towards him and pushing their mouths together in something sloppy and laced with moaned 'I'm so fucking sorry's- as well as one tiny whine of 'I'm sorry for punching you' from the redhead.

But yet again, Patrick rolled his hips and pulled the older boy down, but Pete picked up on it quicker this time.

 

Patrick was making abstinence really fucking hard right now, but Pete was determined to see his determination through.

 

He pulled away from Patrick's lips with a discontent grunt in his throat, before shuffling the covers over both of them, and thumping his head down on the pillow, all while white eyes stayed on Patrick.

 

The redhead watched him with something like fascination, and his impossibly soft hands- despite the hard callouses on his fingers from years of playing strings- traced over the pale blotches on Pete's skin.

They swirled and caressed, soft and deft as they linked the patches together- leaving Pete leaning into the touches with quiet sighs, all while his eyes shifted between blotched skin and rotten eyes. Patrick's hand shifted into dark hair, and the words that tumbled from his lips made Pete freeze.

 

"You're beautiful."

 

Pete supposed he wasn't a complete dumpster fire in terms of looks; He was decent-looking when he was properly covered up, and as well as before his rising, but- but now? He was a fucking monster now- he  could never pass for-

"I love you so much, Pete- god-" Patrick wiggled closer, arm looping around Pete's head, and eyes still focused on Pete's. The older boy's lips quirked into a watery smile, his voice carrying a note of good-natured laughter. "Couldn't have waited 'til morning?"  
The redhead's lips bubbled with laughter too, before they pressed into Pete's once more; Supple, slick and sweet. Pete could hardly believe his luck.

 

_Before_ he was a freaky monster he would've been a lucky son of a bitch in this situation, but now?  _Now_ , this was a goddamn miracle.

 

Poking the tip of his nose against Pete's, Patrick smiled broadly. "No, definitely not." Pete chuckled softly, tipping his forehead against Patrick's and sighing softly, before something occurred to him.

 

"Patrick?"

 

"Mph?"

 

"Can I...and I mean this in the least creepy way possible-"

 

Patrick's laugh was the most angelic thing that had ever graced Pete's ears, and his smile was enough to cure puppy cancer. Was puppy cancer a thing? Pete wasn't sure, but Patrick's smile could definitely cure it. "Good to know."

 

"Can I...just-" Pete decided to use his actions, rather than his words. With a soft move, Pete pushed Patrick onto his back and slid over him, before curling up at his close side and resting an ear against his chest- just over where a strong heart would be beating under ribs and lungs.

The thuds were intoxicating, and they filled Pete's ears, traveled through his nerves, through his very  _bones_ . They journeyed down to his chest, filling it to the brim with steady, echoing thuds, and for once, Pete felt like he had a pulse again.

Chewing on the inside of his lip, Pete sighed into Patrick's sweater-clad chest and pressed a kiss there, just over the beating patch. He pressed his ear back down in the end, eyes fluttering shut as Patrick's hand laced through his hair carefully, fingertips rubbing small, soft circles on his scalp.

 

 

"I love you, 'Trick."

 

 

"I love you too, Pete."

 

 

"I'm so fucking sorry- I-"   
  


 

"I'm sorry for punching you."

 

 

"...Okay, like, _thanks_ , but-"

 

 

"Now go to sleep. We have school in a few hours."

 

 

"...You're just gonna rain on my parade like that?"

 

 

"Constantly." Patrick's lips quickly met dark strands, leaving a soft peck and breathy laughs laced with his words. "Now go to sleep."

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> North or South?


	8. Shine A Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry about not uploading yesterday, I've been feeling a little sick recently ahaha. My update schedule should be back to normal now!! I hope you enjoy the chapter!!

 

Patrick was bruised.

 

Sure, the kid had always bruised like a peach, but this was a little extreme.

 

The morning after the whole...dreamlike situation Pete had been pinching himself about for a good two hours, had been a little frantic.

They'd woken up to Pete's dad knocking on the door, asking to come in whilst urging his eldest son to get ready for school. Pete had managed to hold him off with reassurances and eventually physically holding the door shut, all while both boys desperately looked for some way to get Patrick outside- since, the front door was no longer an option.

And well, Pete had always been a very firm believer in 'Get out the way you came in', so after a lot of silent mouthing and middle fingers from a very distressed redhead, Patrick finally relented.

He'd never been the best at climbing, so when Pete heard a loud thud outside his window, he was worried, but not surprised.

And the tumble had resulted in a few streaky bruises just poking out of a hoodie's collar, and with a few dark patches on his face- along with minor swelling. The sight made Pete laugh and want to give Patrick tea and blankets, simultaneously; However, Patrick was never sarcastic when seriously in pain or injured, so when Patrick had told his three friends to 'Shut their fucking mouths' that morning, Pete hadn't been too concerned. He was still bruised though; Andy was shocked, but Joe saw a golden opportunity.

  
That being said, he _had_ fallen out of a window, and _that_ was pretty funny in itself-

 

"Oh my god- you look like a fuckin' panda dude."

 

Patrick couldn't help a deep, painful looking roll of his eyes, and only took to tugging the brim of his hat down with a huff. Pete's grin was broad and stifling laughter, and all as he fought back the twitch in his arm that urged him to wrap it around the smaller boy's shoulders.

The constant scowl on Patrick's face was kinda...admittedly, dimming Pete's belief that last night had actually happened. But just as Pete's soundless mind started flooding with anxieties and worries, just as he began doubting himself, questioning his memory-

 

Patrick edged him a tiny smile, eyes crinkling through bruises, as his hand subtly met Pete's, just before moving away a second later.

  
Pete sighed quietly, a broad smile growing on his face as the four paced forwards into the school, silent and ears ringing with blended morning chatters from huddles of students.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Math is just…kicking my ass right now."

Joe groaned and dropped his forehead into a palm, but he still kept his gaze on his book stubbornly.

Seeing as Joe had been reeling off complaints for a good ten minutes, Andy finally lost his resilience from the other side of the, so called, 'silent' study room. He crossed it in a few strides, before taking a seat next to Joe with a sigh, and completely ignoring the amused, stifled laughter from Pete and Patrick;

Sat opposite Joe, books idly sprawled in front of them, the secret couple were struggling to keep chuckles at Joe's laughter silent, and had taken to pressing fists over their mouths and glancing at each other with impish smiles.

 

A loud groan from Joe made a few of their snorts of laughter escape, and they only escalated into full, side-aching and silent laughter as a curly-haired head dropped onto the table with a loud thunk. "I have never wanted to die more than I want to right now."

Pete could feel the ghost of an ache in his cheeks, all as his chest swirled oddly; Where there once would've been a struggle for air, there was now only a memory. It still comforted Pete, in a way, and the slightly more somber thoughts melted away at the sight of Patrick.

 

Patrick laughed with his whole body, it really was a sight to behold; He'd clap silently, his legs would kick out and writhe, he'd double over, his head would tip back- God, Pete could never get tired of watching it.

 

As both boys finally started calming down, Pete finally managed a glance over at Joe and Andy; Joe had taken to whining like an upset dog, occasionally just trying to get out of work by trying to hug Andy- who was, in turn, doing his very best to explain the problem on the page.

 

A few minutes later, and Joe had actually been diligently listening, cheek on his hand and eyes down at the page, all as Andy finally leaned back with a sigh, eyes searching but hopeful that his words had gotten through to his silent boyfriend.

With a steady exhale, Andy crossed his arms and quirked an eyebrow at Joe. "So, now that I’ve explained it for, fifteen minutes- do you understand?"

 

Joe nodded firmly, eyes narrowing into a squint. "Yes."

 

"Are you lying to me?"

 

Dropping the bottom lip, Joe glanced at Andy with wide eyes and a cracked voice. " _Yes_."

Pete and Patrick spluttered into a laugh at only one glance, and Andy couldn't help himself and joined not long after, while Joe was left silently laughing into his hands as he gave up on math entirely.

He slammed the book shut with a sigh and leaned back into his chair, watching the others with a lazy grin as they breathed themselves through their lingering giggles.

 

As Patrick hiccuped with a final bubble of laughter, three pairs of footsteps disrupted the easy peace. A few glances over shoulders, a few tilted chins, and four pairs of eyes found three pale boys.

 

Ryan, Brendon and Mikey all strode into the study room, each only sparing Pete glances before shuffling over to a table at the far end. The room was small, and only a few meters separated _them_ , from the _living_ \- bar Pete.

 

Andy, Joe, and Patrick looked to Pete, eyes a little wider than usual and gazes curious.

Pete only gave the tiniest, yet noticeable shrug he could, before shifting in his seat to let his back face the dead kids. Pete had just gotten Joe, Andy and Patrick back, and shit, he didn't wanna freak them out even more; Ryan, Brendon and Mikey were nice enough, but it wasn't the same. It would never be the same.

 

 

"Hey Pete?"

 

 

Pete's eyes clenched shut at the words, but despite himself, and despite the nervous glances from his friends, he turned. "Yeah?"

Ryan tilted his head, face a little blanker than usual. Pete also noticed his eye contacts were gone; Maybe Mikey had convinced him. "How have you been recently? We haven't hung out in a while."

 

Pete's throat constricted, and his words struggled to escape, only ringing out in rasps and strained words that felt brittle.

 

"Good. I've- I've been fine." Pete exhaled quietly and turned back to his friends, before quickly glancing over his shoulder and adding a polite word and gesture. "You?"

Ryan nodded, brow quirking as Brendon and Mikey stayed silent behind him. Brendon was uncharacteristically blank, and he looked...twitchy.

Under the table, Pete felt a soft hand on his leg, along with fingers that squeezed numb pressure into his thigh. It was reassuring, yet pleading, and Pete glanced back to find a matching expression on Patrick's features.

Chewing his lip, Pete cleared his throat and quickly fished his phone from his pocket, before typing a quick message into the group chat that had been neglected for a good few years.

 

_Pete: lets go_

_Pete: just grab ur bags cool???_

 

A few silent buzzes masked by idle talking, followed by a few quiet checks, and then all topped off by glances and nods, and the four boys stood in a discorded union.

Scraping chairs, rustling bags, closing books, and Pete winced at Mikey's cutting, aloof words. "You're leaving, Pete?" Pete glanced over his shoulder to find a mocking, yet knowing smile that made his skin crawl. "Hope we didn't...chase you off, or anything."

With a quick shake of his head and a stride towards the door, Pete hated how nervous and timid his voice sounded. "No- No, it's uh- it's cool man- it's cool."

 

As the four left the room and took to pacing down the hall quickly, in a prayer that the others wouldn't follow, Pete noticed something thoughtful on Joe's face. It looked like he was trying to place something...or, some _one_.

 

Pete hoped his hunch was wrong.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"No but, shit- I don't know, what's the goddamn point of-"

 

Andy sighed and clapped a hand on Joe's shoulder. The curly-haired boy had started complaining about chemistry homework, rather than math- and turns out, he was proficient in complaining about every subject, not just one. "I'll explain-"

 

 

"Hey Pete."

 

 

The four stuttered to a stop, eyes wide and jaws a little looser than usual as they turned. The same group of three from earlier that day; They were pacing towards them nonchalantly, footsteps slow and not particularly hurried, as they ignored everyone but Pete once again.

Pete chewed the inside of his cheek and nodded awkwardly, not quite mustering any words through the writhing knot in his stomach. Jesus- why were they being so cryptic today? Were they mad at him, or- or-

 

"You taken your shot today, Pete?" Ryan's head tilted a little, and Pete felt his skin freeze over. Motherfuckers- they knew what they were doing after all; If the bobbing Adam's apples and shifting gazes from his friends were any indication, they were trying to freak Patrick, Joe and Andy away from him...But _why? What was the point_ -

 

 

"Do I know you?"

 

 

Joe was squinting at Ryan and Brendon pointedly, deep blue eyes narrowed softly and posture a little more guarded than usual. Brendon shifted a little, one foot gliding behind him on instinct, but Ryan...No, Ryan only smiled politely.

 

"I dunno...you _look_ kinda familiar." Ryan hummed and stuffed his hands into his pockets, but some part of Pete felt like he already knew something they didn't.

 

Pete _prayed_ his hunch was wrong.

 

Ryan smiled oddly, head crooking a little more. "Your voice is kinda...familiar too-"

"Ryan _stop it_." Brendon's eyes were wide and pressing, his voice a whisper, but the hand around Ryan's skinny bicep was only scoffed at quietly. The pale boy turned back to Joe- who was looking steadily more and more cautious.

 

"I kinda remember it saying...I dunno- damn." He clicked his tongue, but the smile was still prevalent. "Lucy? Or- or was it...Laura-"

Joe's eyes dropped wide, and an electric spark of realization flashed through his eyes, as the dominoes no doubt toppled in his mind- no doubt, as he remembered things, as he pieced things together- but God, Ryan just kept pressing-

 

 

"Lauren."

 

 

Ryan's smile was wide, and not particularly malicious; No, it looked sweet, sweet as sugar- like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth as he taunted a brother about the death of his sister. "Little girl, huh...Yeah, she was screaming _a lot_ \- yeah, _really_ loud kid."

A small laugh bubbled in Ryan's throat as though the topic was completely casual, leaning forwards like a challenge as Brendon did the opposite; The wide-eyed boy, who wasn't wearing his covers either, now that Pete really saw him, shirked back, eyes shifting desperately and whole demeanor screaming vulnerable.

 

"I-It was you-" Joe gave a gasp that had a choked sound behind it, eyes steadily brimming with flames as his hands curled into fists. This wasn't going anywhere good, Pete could tell- but fuck, Andy was frozen, so was Patrick- and Pete couldn't bring himself to move either.

 

"I remember you-" Blue eyes moved to Brendon accusingly, but the boy only grimaced further, seemingly regretting his choice of not covering up that day as shame wracked him. " _Both_ of you- fuck- Mother _fucker_ -"

 

Everything slowed down and sped up all at once, movements blurring in Pete's eyes as he barely registered what the fuck was going on until he heard Andy's voice, firm and booming as he pulled Joe back; His knuckles were grazed, and Ryan was on the floor, _laughing_.

Every happy note made Joe's screams louder, made his shoves against Andy harder- but Pete only snapped back to alert life when a stern voice barked through the frantic ambience.

 

 

"Mikey."

 

 

Mikey only rolled his eyes and sighed loudly, irritation dripping off the sound.

 

The man was older, plastered in tattoos and black-haired, but _short_ _as hell_ , damn-

 

"Mikey, c'mon. Gerard's making dinner."

 

"Oh _fuck off_ Frank." The words were a whisper to himself, but the so-called 'Frank', only glared lightly. Mikey's entire demeanor was petulant, and his image was the epitome of angsty teenager as he turned and stomped away towards the short man with a face like thunder. He tried to shove past, but the man deftly stepped aside to avoid a bony shoulder into his own, and that only earned a glower from Mikey.

Frank gave the rest of them a stare, taking in the sight before him. With a quiet nod, he turned away and paced after Mikey with thudding steps, and as soon as they were out of view, Pete's sights turned back to the others.

 

 

Brendon was fretting over Ryan, but he was still sparing nervous glances Joe's way. Ryan however, looked completely uninjured, only grinning mockingly Joe's way.

Andy's hands were acting as blinders on Joe, blocking out his peripheral vision and, as consequence, blocking out the two dead kids that he looked ready to brutally murder.

He spoke softly, calmly, but Pete could see his shoulder blades shaking with rage. Joe looked pale but frantic, buzzing with furious energy as Pete noticed his nose was bleeding- and it looked red- shit, his cheekbone was a little shiny-

 

Ryan had gotten in a few punches as well, apparently.

 

Pete's gaze moved to Patrick; The strawberry haired boy still looked somewhere between frozen and enraged.

Pete knew what Patrick could be like when he was angry, and just as he was about to try a move towards Patrick, the redhead ducked away towards Joe and Andy.

Joe's angry collapsed into sobbing into a second, face falling into Andy's chest as his hands trembled and paled.

Patrick had joined in soft words to calm him down, and just as Pete was debating whether to approach or not- Ryan's bright grin was shot his way, but there was something rueful and judging behind it.

 

"So, you gonna run off to your living friends again?"

 

Pete couldn't hold back the scowl that crossed his face, but Ryan took his silence as fuel to continue pressing. "They- they're not even- like," Ryan's laugh was breathy, and Pete was sure something had addled his brain. "Like, they're not- they're not like us. They don't _get_ you- they don't understand what it's like. You know that, right?"

 

Andy and Patrick were still calming Joe- who was noticeably getting worse at the sound of Ryan's smug voice, they stood on the street with wide glances back at Pete. Pete stared after them, soles rooted in place but heart leaping towards them.

 

Ryan beamed once more, moving forwards to put a squeezing hand on Pete's shoulder. His pale eyes were soft and wide, and his entire being would've been warm and inviting, had he not just admitted to eating Joe's sister alive.

 

"You have to choose." Ryan shrugged, smile broad and _sure_. Pete hated the _sureness_ behind it. "Us, or them. You can't have us both."

 

Pete scoffed, it was violent and guttural, but it escaped him like an instinct. He jerked away from the hand, making sure the move was angry and relishing in the flash of shock and fear that whipped Ryan's features.

 

 

_Them. Always them._

 

The words couldn't leave his throat, the lumps of anger, grief, injustice- they were just too big to let his words escape. Without a word and with a dark look, Pete stalked away and made a beeline for Joe, Andy and Patrick, all reservations left at the door.

A few hands on a few shoulders, and he urged the other three away. The four paced down the street in silence, ignoring the burning stares behind them with all their might.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What felt like an eternity passed before Joe and Andy were both at the former's house, leaving Pete and Patrick wandering towards the latter's house.

The air was quiet, and the sky was growing dark, but neither of them could really speak as they stopped at green bushes and wooden fence.

There were a few moments of feet rooted to the ground, Patrick turned to Pete after the silence, eyes soft and hands inching to fist into his shirt gently.

Pete could tell something was heavy on his tongue; Maybe he wanted to thank him for not choosing the others, maybe he wanted to take a break, maybe the memory of Lauren had shaken the dust from the memory of what Pete actually was.

 

But instead, Patrick kissed him, and Pete melted into him like wax.

 

Patrick left him with a murmured 'I love you', and with another soft peck before he paced away towards the front door. He stopped at the frame and smiled back at Pete softly, despite his eyes holding immeasurable melancholy.

 

 

"Get home safe."

 

 

The words were innocuous enough, but Pete could feel the firmness behind them. He glanced up to the sky and he understood; Darkening clouds, and a setting sun that tinted everything an odd purple-blue, all as white, pin prick stars began popping up all over the sky- with the bright, white moon emerging faintly but quickly.

 

Pete dropped his gaze and nodded quickly, tugging his hood over his head and watched Patrick disappear inside, before bouncing away with an urgency to his step.

He tried to ignore the fake thundering in his chest, an instinctual memory supposed to save him, even now. And caused _solely_ by the fading light and the street lamps that glowed a brilliant shade of orange- making everything just a little more surreal than it should've been.

 

On the way home, Pete had garnered some interest, and the stares, the chatters, the following- the seemingly preparedness of some people. Faces covered by caps and scarves and hats. Pockets bulging with all types of odd looking stuff, hands stuffed away, eyes lowered and dark. They looked ready to kill tonight.

 

Pete had just about managed to refrain from breaking into a sprint, despite his heart, his mind and his very _soul_ pleading with him to get home, to mom, to dad- to safety.

 

 

 

 

He was panting by the time he reached home, and it wasn't from the brutal pace his numb legs had set. Pete pushed through the door in a flurry of panic and stomped upstairs, his parent's worried and curious calls from the kitchen falling on deaf ears.

 

Pete fell into bed in a second, only bothering to pull his shoes off before curling up in the covers and letting himself shake and tremble fearfully. He couldn't have shown it on the street, not to those people who were practically searching for any excuse to beat the living hell out of someone like him, but now, in the safety of his home, Pete could shiver all he wanted to.

 

Pete hadn't been the model young person before dying. Sure, he'd been the focal point of some huge, ridiculous scandals, and _sure_ , there had been some people who were not so fond of him in the community, but- but out there, on a dark street, under a dark sky, and being followed by shadows-

 

 

That was the first time Pete had been scared to walk through his own town.

 

 

 


	9. Something Good Tonight Will Make Me Forget About You For Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long awaited...stuff, and more cryptic questions, I'm v sorry lol.

 

Police sirens echoed throughout the town; Loud, blaring and sharp, it breached Pete's ears with a wail that made him stir from sleep with a scowl on his face.

He managed to pull himself out of bed and wander over to squint blearily out of the window- only to be met with a sight that made his eyes widen.  
  
Up on Battery hill, under a large, withered looking tree, sat a flock of police cars. There were people in uniform walking back and forth, a few blue sirens were still ringing, and above the whole scene, there was a macabre reminder of the darkness last night had carried.

 

 

A body. Strung up on a rope, and hanging from the branches.

 

 

The soft swaying in the dry breeze was horrifically hypnotizing, and Pete could only drag his eyes away when his phone buzzed from his bedside table.

He moved away from the window, not eager in being in the sight of a dead body. With a dazed cloud numbing his mind, Pete clumsily took the phone into his hands and brought the screen to life, before squinting down at a bright screen and words.

 

_Patrick: Did you see Battery hill?_

 

Pete chewed his lip. Of course Patrick had awoken to it too. They lived near each other, after all, and Battery hill was just tall enough to loom over their part of town. Grey pale thumbs typed out a quick response as Pete tried to avoid staring out of the window.

 

_Pete: yeah i did_

 

_Patrick: I think I'm gonna go._

 

_Pete: to the hill???_

 

_Patrick: I want to know who it was_

 

_Pete: trick are you sure?_

 

_Patrick: Yeah_

_Patrick: Do you want to come with?_

 

Pete wasn't sure if he did. On one hand, it was wandering a little too near to a crime scene, but on the other, well...Pete hadn't even considered _who_ it was.

  
There were two types of people who got lynched in their town. The zombies, and their- allies, Pete supposed 'ally' was the best way to put it.

 

The zombies were for obvious reasons; Revenge, hatred, disgust- all the sneering looks that were given out had finally been acted upon.

 

But their 'allies', they could vary- although, the living would call them 'traitors', more than anything. It could either be parents trying to protect their undead children. It could be brothers and sisters sheltering dead siblings. It could be spouses defending their wives and husbands. It could also be those who were just in love.

 

Pete hated how Patrick fell into that category now. He hated that he'd made Patrick a little unsafer than he'd been before.

 

He couldn't lose Patrick. He couldn't. It was out of the question- he wouldn't.

 

 

_Pete: see you there_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They stood in silence behind the rickety wooden gate that blocked off the tall hills- with police cars only a few meters away. Eyes frozen on the tree, jaws looser than usual, and hands inches apart. It was the only comforting gesture in the midst of everything else, and despite the body, the only thing on Pete's mind was linking Patrick's fingers with his own. But that was too risky in public now. Pete couldn't lose Patrick. Not like that.

 

"Hey- you can't be here."

 

Their eyes tore from the gently swaying body and the creaking rope, to find the dark-haired, tattoo-plastered, and really goddamn short man from yesterday walking towards them. Dressed in uniform- a cop, holy shit; Pete wouldn't have guessed that one. He squinted slightly. The guy's name was Frank, if he remembered correctly.

 

"You know Mikey Way, right?" Patrick's voice was a little dull, but Frank stifled a long suffering sigh and nodded. " _Unfortunately_." He suddenly looked a little panic, eyes flooding with something alert as he glanced around for a moment, before falling back into his dulled state.

Patrick was a little more adventurous today, apparently; He tilted his head and pressed the cop for another answer, all as Pete took the golden opportunity to read shiny, silver name tag on his uniform. _Frank A. Iero_. Huh, Pete swore that sounded familiar.

 

"How'd you know him?"

 

Frank was indulging them for some reason, perhaps caught off guard in a sleepy dazed- if the dark eye bags, odd blinking and voice teetering on the edge of a yawn was any indication. "He's my boyfriend's brother- now-"

 

"Gerard? Was that it-"

 

Things seemed to finally snap back into place for the police officer, and Frank quickly shook his head. "Look- no, you can't be here. C'mon-"

 

"Who is it?" Just as Frank was about to scold the two teenagers for asking about his private life, before telling them to fuck off, he noticed Pete's eyes were solely on the body on Battery hill.

The older man cleared his throat for a moment, before relenting an answer; Pete wondered why exactly, but at the same time, news spread like wildfire in this town, and there was no point in hiding it for long.

 

"Jude Fletcher. Some, foster kid, apparently."

 

The name sparked a tiny memory of a nervous boy in biology class, hastily and clumsily grabbing his books and pencils while whimpering 'sorry's to a girl next to him, as she sobbed at his 'terrifying' presence. Something twisted in Pete's gut.

 

He seemed like a good kid. A kid that hadn't deserved _that_.

 

Staring at the body felt a little more morbid now, now that the swaying corpse had a name, a face, a voice Pete could tether it too...he started feeling sick. He knew nothing would actually come of it, no dizziness, no throwing up- his body couldn't do it anymore, but it didn't stop the memories beating into him, almost _materializing_ the impossible.

Pete felt fingers brush his own, and he glanced to his side to find Patrick giving him a small, sad smile. The redhead motioned his head over his shoulder, and with a small word of thanks to Frank, they trudged down the base of the hill, and back into concrete streets.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pete thought Patrick would've been going home, but instead, the redhead followed him all the way back to his house.

Pete didn't protest. He needed somebody right now, needed to talk, to- to listen to a heartbeat, to not feel alone. His parents were at work- and even if they had been there, it wouldn't have been...the same. They could sympathize, pat his back, let him cry but- but Pete didn't like showing his sadness to them; He'd made them suffer enough, he didn't want them to deal with a depressed kid 90% of the time now.

  
The house was empty and as silent as a church when they entered; Andrew rarely left his room, and Hillary was rarely at _home_. Pete's presence unnerved her, that was a given, so at any given opportunity, she'd run off to her friend's houses. He didn't blame her.

 

They both silently paced into his room, and before Pete had even made a sound or a move, Patrick pressed a splayed hand against the door and pushed it shut, clicking against the frame.

The redhead was quiet, and he still refused to make a sound as he paced over to Pete's bed, sitting on the edge as he'd done a thousand times before.

Pete refrained from chewing his lip, instead, letting his nails bite into his palm like sharks. He kept his movements purposefully quiet as he walked over to the bed, quietly taking a seat beside him.

 

Teeth clamped down on the inside of his cheek and Pete looked over at Patrick.

 

He looked small, but his shoulders looked tensed and his eyes held something determined. The younger boy was also still and silent, eyes frozen on the air in front of him and hands lax on his legs.

 

The silence was crushing Pete like a bug, but at the same time, a bubble of anxiety rose through his chest. The lack of sound wasn't comfortable, and it felt like mountains of words were being held behind the storm wall, roaring to be unleashed.

The cushioned tension that pressed into every organ he had, the curtain of heavy that hung over the room, and the horrible stifling and expanding pressure in his head-

 

And then, Patrick curled a hand into his sweater and slotted their lips together.

 

Pete hadn't been expecting...that, to be truthful, but as Patrick crawled over him, lips warm and wet and hands carding through his hair, he could hardly bring himself to complain.

He was so lost in Patrick, that when the jacket under his hands became a shirt, and when the shirt was shed in favor of bare skin, he didn't fully register it and only managed an appreciative groan against Patrick.

Fingertips, nails, palms all raked and squeezed into that pale skin that had only seen sunlight like, three times tops, Pete was completely sure, and the quiet sighs from Patrick only made Pete's hands a little more frantic.

Pete hardly noticed when his own sweater was tugged off, and he hardly noticed when the jeans rustling against his own became more creamy skin, but god, it wasn't like he minded.

 

Everything was numb, as though he was feeling it behind a screen but- god, just hearing Patrick's soft whines was enough to send him sighing into Patrick's mouth. He dragged a hand over the faint ridges of Patrick's spine, and reveled at the subsequent shudder and lip bite. He'd caused that. He'd caused that pretty pink flush on Patrick, those goosebumps on his skin. He'd made those powder blue eyes snap shut, he'd made white teeth dig into a bottom lip, and Pete had never felt more alive.

 

"I can't lose you." The words were mumbled against his lips, and they snapped things back into place rudely. Pete's eyes shot open and he blinked, brow furrowing slightly as he sat up, disregarding Patrick's whine as he took a moment to stare the redhead down.  
Mussed hair, the beginnings of swollen lips, flushed pink, and the milkiest skin Pete had ever seen; Patrick was a vision.

 

And while he wanted nothing more to- fuck, he wasn't going to take advantage of-

 

"Just- ignore- forget-" Pale arms tried to loop around his neck once more, but Pete quickly seized two forearms in his hands, eyes still stern. "Patrick. If you- if you're just- if you don't feel okay, I can't-"

 

Patrick tugged his arms away, and his eyes drooped a little. Then he moved a hand to cup Pete's cheek, eyes and thumb running over the fake skin colour that wasn't quite dried there. Rushing out of the house half in pyjamas, with hurriedly applied covers- Pete had just wanted to look decent, he hadn't really been going for the full living experience.

He smiled softly, before leaning his forehead against Pete's with composed breathing. "I love you." His voice was calm, sober, and as his hands carded through his hair again, Pete sighed softly, feeling oddly comforted. "And I can't lose you."

 

Pete hardly registered Patrick lying back into the mattress before more soft words were murmured against his ear. "I waited for so long Pete- I-" He exhaled shakily, before staring up at the older boy with determination in his eyes and a fire behind his pupils.

He tugged Pete down with a quick move, lips crashing together again with soft sighs, and rational thought left Pete's brain with a stampede.

 

Pressing his face into Patrick's neck, Pete ran a flat tongue over the crook, and huffed at the whine it brought from Patrick. Pete moved to sucking and nipping bruises along the length, ears flooding with the pants and moans from Patrick until they were the only things bouncing around in his skull.

He trailed a hand down Patrick's side, before hooking it over his hip and pressing into the younger boy; Useless on his part, but through the numbness, he could feel Patrick. Hot, heavy, and just starting to get hard.

 

Pete moved to cage over Patrick once more, taking a moment to stare down at hazy eyes and a lip bruised by his own teeth. The start of a sheen had started spreading over Patrick's bare, flushed chest, the dampness pooling in his shallow collarbones.  
Pete dipped his head with a sigh, tongue lolling across as his face tipped into the bones, ears still full of Patrick's stuttered sighs.

Patrick smelled like boy, pure and simple; That scent that screamed a messy room, an attempt at aftershave, and of two days without a shower. Pete knew he was the same, hell, pretty much everyone was, but there was something indistinguishable that made the whole thing Patrick, and while Pete didn't know what it was, he adored it.

 

It'd been so long since he'd been here; With a warm, wanting and panting body under his own, and fuck, Pete felt intoxicated in the best possible way.

Pete slid his hands over Patrick's chest, his ribs, his sides, before finally settling across his hips, committing every inch to memory and getting acquainted with this side of Patrick for the first time. He wished he'd done it sooner.

 

Pete ducked his head to press his open mouth over Patrick's left nipple, tongue flicking over the bud as he watched Patrick writhe and arch and whimper with lazy eyes, all as his hand freely ran over the other. The startled breaths escaping Patrick in strings had escalated into whimpers and shallow hip bucks, and as his hands pulled at Pete's hair, the older boy only pressed a kiss just beside the taut bud.

The growled whimper in the back of Patrick's throat was enough to urge Pete upwards, and instead of torturing the redhead any longer, he took to moving up over him with wet, lingering and electrifying kisses until he reached a flushed ear.

Patrick could only moan and take it when Pete nibbled at his earlobe, pale hands gripping at Pete in a demanding way, taking to hiding his face in the dark-haired boy's neck.

 

Pete had never wished blood was pumping through his veins more than right now; God he'd give anything to press the smaller boy down and just pound into him, listen to those breathy whines and guttural, inhuman groans as he slid in and out brutally.

Pete pressed his face into Patrick's shoulder. God, he wished- fuck, there were hardly any signs of it, but he was already so fucking turned on, and they'd barely done anything.

 

Pete had been good at this whole deal before, and he was so fucking relieved to learn he was still good at picking up on any tiny cues that Patrick sent his way. He kept his mouth on Patrick's neck, finding the sweet spots behind his ear and at the tendons, all while keeping his groin pressed into Patrick's and letting the smaller boy rut as much as he wanted to. Or needed to. The line was starting to blend.

He kept it up until Patrick, whimpered and pulled Pete to face him, eyes watery and full of fire, hard and aching and desperate for relief. Or friction. Whichever came first. And with the least amount of work.

 

Patrick was practically begging when Pete skimmed a hand down between them, cupping the bulge in Patrick's boxers with a firm hand and nipping along the edge of his jaw. He considered speaking for a moment, whispering something impossibly filthy and pornographic into Patrick's ear, but he refrained; This wasn't brash or lustful, no, truthfully, it was slow and a long time coming, and Pete was gonna savor every fucking second.

Patrick shuddered harshly as Pete's hand squeezed softly, before he spoke in a voice so gruff and low it almost stopped Pete's brain functions for a moment. "Please- just, fuck, do- please."

 

Sometimes, enough was enough, and Pete was pretty sure he'd prolonged the preparations as long as he humanly could. Pete snaked a nimble hand into dark boxers, and Patrick took his lip between his teeth with a sharp inhale.

 

He was doing that to Patrick, it was all him. Pete moved to bite at a pale shoulder, keeping hungry eyes solely on Patrick.

 

Pete curled a hand around Patrick's shaft, squeezing lightly and huffing bemusedly at the embarrassing sound that ripped through Patrick like a tornado through a house.

 

"Fuck- Patrick." Pete glanced down at Patrick's cock; Pink, jutting and straining up towards his stomach almost painfully.

With a swiftness he didn't know how he was mustering right now, Pete moved down to hover between Patrick's thighs, finally pulling the redhead's boxers and socks off with a single deft move.

 

Patrick had tried leaning up on his forearms, spit-slick and swollen mouth parted as he panted obscenely, all while dark and inviting eyes burned into him like an iron brand. He was the prettiest fucking picture Pete had ever laid eyes on.

 

Taking Patrick into one hand, Pete left strategic, wet, and open kisses all along the velvety shaft, entirely covering the entire thick, and admittedly bigger than expected expanse.

Pete was making a point of avoiding the head, but the whispered, indignant noises Patrick was making were enough to make him chuckle and finally take some pity on the poor kid.

 

Pete broadened his tongue, and licked a long, steady stripe under the shaft, before stopping just behind the bundle of nerves behind Patrick's head.

 

"Please- oh god- Pete, _please_ , _please_ -" Patrick couldn't stop himself begging, and with the way he was twisting and writhing in the sheets, the way his hips were rutting forwards and with tearful, ravenous eyes, he looked to be in utter agony. " _Please_." His words were breathy and gasped, and Pete finally gave him as much as he could at once.

 

Curling his tongue around the head, Pete ducked his head to suck Patrick into tight, wet space, while drifting a hand along his shaft, before just twisting shy of the damp head. The pattern became a rhythm, and it was one Pete quickly memorized while keeping his eyes locked on Patrick like a sniper's sights on his target.

Patrick's whimpering and moaning, mouth parted and hands buried into the comforter at his sides, fingers deathly white as a particularly loud whine escaped him.

 

Pete brought Patrick back from the edge he was very nearly toppling over with gentle, soft, slow sucks, and the smaller boy groaned as he sighed deeply, head lolling to the side as his eyes clamped shut.

Satisfied that this wasn't gonna be over far too quickly, Pete relaxed his throat in a frozen yawn, and inched down Patrick's shaft until his nose was pressing against the soft fold of skin between groin and stomach. Patrick's eyes snapped open, and Pete's stare didn't waver for a second. He moved a hand to grip at Patrick's hip, thumb and rough finger pads rubbing small, electric circles onto the skin.

 

Not having to breathe really made the whole thing easier, and while he could've viably stayed there for like, six hours, Pete pulled off with a wet sound- only to sink down once again. He clenched his throat but still kept his eyes on Patrick; He was also pretty sure his eyes would be watery as hell, if not for the lack of working tear ducts.

 

Patrick looked to be on the brink of just grabbing his hair and fucking his face mercilessly, but for what the kid lacked, he was _polite_. His voice was rough like grit and gravel as he spoke through clenched teeth, and a hiss. "I'm- I'm gonna-" His words were cut off by his own moan, followed by a whine as Pete pulled off within a second, cutting the supply of much needed friction short.

 

Wiping at his cold, thick spit-slick chin, Pete watched Patrick like a lion watching a gazelle in tall grass. He just had to wait until his breathing calmed, he just had to wait until Patrick wasn't gonna explode in his mouth at the first touch.

 

As soon as the redhead's chest was rising and falling softly, he sucked Patrick down yet again. "Oh god-" Patrick tried tossing a weak forearm over his eyes, hips raising from the bed a fraction as he spoke with a rough voice that was as thick as honey. "You're _actually_ killing me- fuck-"

 

Pete honestly tried not to laugh, just managing to limit the chuckle down to a wrinkle of the corners of his eyes as he pulled off once more.

 

He sucked a few fingers into his mouth as he watched Patrick calm down again, before sinking back between beautifully spread legs with a soft exhale.

Pete left small, kitten laps on everything from his balls to his head, one hand squeezing at his thigh while the other skimmed a finger around his rim. He stared up at Patrick as he bit down on the inside of a pale thigh, hard enough until he was sure he'd leave marks.

 

Patrick looked like he was being tortured.

 

Tilting his head, Pete stubbornly kept his eyes on powder blue ones as he sucked the head of Patrick's cock back into his mouth. In a move spurred by curiosity, Patrick's hand touched Pete's cheek, fingers feeling where his own cock was pushing inside of it, where Pete's cheeks were nestling him. The pale hand moved to his hair instead, pushing back stray strands as he watched Pete bob his head diligently. "Fuck- Jesus, Pete-"

 

Pete felt a little mean, torturing Patrick like this. So, in a peace offering, he sucked him down fully again, and smiled as he watched Patrick's head thud to the side of the mattress audibly.

 Patrick's hips were bucking weakly, silently begging half-heartedly for _more_.

 

Well, Pete had always been a people-pleaser.

 

He pushed his index finger past the tight ring of muscle, and tilted his head around Patrick to watch the pink rim stretch around his finger.

Pale hands threaded into his hair, gripping at the strands as Patrick arched from the bed, chest rising and falling erratically.

Pete pushed another finger past, skin prickling at the hissing groan Patrick gave, before he tried crooking them. His brow furrowed as he focused both on searching, and on distracting Patrick with his mouth.

 

It'd started building once more, the pace slow and steady, but as the rough pads of Pete's fingers found a walnut sized bump, he knew this wouldn't last for much longer.

 

He pressed against it, rubbing mercilessly and humming at the overwhelmed strangled gasp Patrick gave. The redhead curled upwards, muscles clenching and hands grabbing at his hair as Pete stilled. Patrick came back down with whimpered, shuddered whines, high and breathy- and Patrick was firmly back on earth.

Pete raked his fingernails over the bump, and the curl came again, blue eyes squinting violently as his mouth hung open and tense with a gasp of- "I'm gonna- I'm gonna- I'm _gonna_ -"

 

Pete pulled off him in an instant, before deciding to prolong it for just a little longer. He wrapped a hand around the base of Patrick's twitching, dark cock, and squeezed tightly, pulling him back from the cliff edge for what felt like the hundredth time.

Patrick sobbed and whimpered, one long shaky groan of frustration as he dropped his hands from Pete's hair, moving them to his own with a breathy whine.

 

Watching his every move, Pete pressed a light, teasing kiss to the slit of Patrick's dick, before blowing a cold breath over the spit-slicked length, while fingers stilled inside him.

Patrick whimpered and stared at the ceiling, eyes blank and whole face _blanker_ as he breathed softly once more, firmly back down from cloud nine.

 

A few more seconds, just for good measure, and Patrick's eyes found Pete's once more. The dark-haired boy smiled; Patrick's eyes looked unfocused, dazed, and glassy- almost mirroring the clouds swirling in Pete's head.

A pale hand moved down to cup his cheek, thumb brushing away a few streaks of fake skin colour as the redhead breathed softly. Pete leaned into the touch, and only pressed a kiss to the palm before batting it away softly. And, with a long, firm stare, Pete sank down, swallowed Patrick's cock, and pressed against the bump with two rough fingers.

 

"Pete- I- I'm- Pete- I'm- I-" Patrick was whimpering like a dog, eyes wide and burning into his own as his high voice kindly tried a warning. Pete only smiled, pressed against the bump, and groaned; Low, guttural, and _rough_.

Patrick made a deafening noise that could almost pass for animalistic, hips bucking upwards wildly with a newfound fervor. Pete only kept his head down, diligently swallowing around Patrick until the hot spurts stopped hitting the back of his throat.

As Patrick dropped boneless against the bed, hips finally stilling and sighing into the air softly, Pete pulled out and away, wiping his chin with a sleeve and wiping his hand on the covers. He made a mental note to change them as he crawled up over Patrick with a smile, before shuffling down next to him and tugging the comforter from under them.

He pulled it over them both, and quickly laughed as Patrick squirmed into him in a second. His breathing was still a little labored, but as Pete gazed at him softly- all mussed bedhead hair, flushed milky skin, and content eyes, he could only dive forwards to catch those bitten, swollen lips with his own.

Patrick sighed against him, legs threading with his own as he shifted onto his back, pulling Pete's head towards his chest. Ear pressing against the heartbeat under Patrick's skin, Pete sighed deeply and wrapped an arm around his waist, arm tight and solid as Patrick's hands mussed through his already, no doubt extremely messy hair.

 

They fell asleep without words. No words about how dark it'd gotten, no words about the mess or the noise, no words about how wrecked they both looked.

 

 

And Pete couldn't have been more grateful.

 

 

 


	10. I Used To Obsess Over living, Now I Only Obsess Over You

 

"Now, Pete- be careful, please-"

 

"I will, mom."

 

"And, don't leave the house-"

 

"I won't, dad."

 

Pete tried a smile at his parents, praying it looked reassuring. They were suited up in their Sunday Bests, ready to head out to a church event; A full day of sermons, prayers, and donations- all for charity, of course. It totally wasn't gonna be used to buy the charity owner a new BMW, nah, totally not.

Thankfully, after realizing just how shitty Pete's last church visit had been, his parents had decided to spare him from the ordeal of a full day.

And while his friends might be there, their jokes and general presence would only make the snide comments from others bittersweet, at best.  
So to avoid being a depressed piece of shit and dragging them down with him, Pete decided to go full Home Alone while his parents were at church- minus all the elaborate traps.

 

His parents gave him final, slightly worried yet warm smiles, and shepherded Hillary and Andrew outside, before calling out final goodbyes and finally clicking the front door shut. They wouldn't be gone for long, he supposed; They'd be back at noon, then they'd leave again- but that only meant Pete needed to take advantage of his free time _now_.

 

Pete quickly moved over to the door and locked it not too soon after, before stumbling up to his room with a light, breathy sigh.

 

Pete stopped himself from curling up in bed again, he really had to be some kinda productive today. Instead, Pete forced himself towards his school bag, fetching a few books and moving over to his desk, clattering them down with a thud.

A pen, a notepad, and textbooks, and Pete was studying; He deserved a medal, at this point.

 

His dutiful work was interrupted by a few buzzes only a few moments later, and Pete fished his phone out of his hoodie's pocket without a care for the Shakespeare analysis going on the page in front of him.

Pete chuckled quietly when he read the message.

 

_Joe: Someone take me out_

_Joe: Date way or assassination way. I don’t care anymore._

 

_Pete: that bad??_

 

_Joe: V bad._

_Joe: I'm Jewish, I shouldn't even have to deal with this shit._

_Joe: Screw this town dude_

 

_Andy: We'll go back to Chicago one day, chill_

 

Pete stopped, brow pulling down and eyelids fluttering with a blink. Chicago; That had been their old plan, before- before...But, they still wanted to- to leave? Or, was that a plan exclusive to-

 

_Patrick: God I can't wait. I'm gonna blow my brains out, this is awful this fucking suit I swear to god_

 

Okay, not exclusive, but still... _unexpected_.

 

_Joe: Anyway, how are you, Michael Jackson from the Thriller music video?_

 

_Pete: me??_

 

_Joe: dude_

 

Pete chuckled, a little louder than last time as he gave his phone screen a goofy smile.

 

_Pete: im good, glad I got to skip church_

 

_Joe: You never change dude_

_Joe: You used to skip school every other week too like??_

 

_Pete: hey unfair_

_Pete: im a completely different person than I was a couple years ago_

_Pete: i hate myself at least five times more_

 

_Patrick: Now that's what I call edgy_

 

_Joe: Shit the priest is staring us down_

 

_Pete: well go, dont get dammed to hell bois_

 

_Joe: I'll try not to dad_

 

_Pete: make me proud son_

 

 

Just as a few answers started ringing in, a knock at the door downstairs shook Pete away from the screen. He glanced over his shoulder, brow furrowed and the ghost of a writhing stomach infecting him. Okay. Pretty much everybody was at church right now, it was a pretty big event, and if anyone wasn't there...then-

 

Another knock, a little more frantic than the last. With a squint, Pete cautiously left his phone and his desk behind, edging down the stairs quietly.  
He thought about opening the door, but just as he made a move towards him, something occurred to him.

  
If whoever was at the door had...less than friendly intentions, Pete did _not_ want to end up like Jude. There had been so many news stories of it recently, of people breaking into homes and murdering any zombies they could find.

 

So, instead, Pete padded over to the kitchen quietly, fetched the biggest, longest butcher's knife he could, and then crept back to the door.

  
There was a lump in his throat, but despite the anxieties that were setting his nerves on fire, he opened the door, knife behind his back, trembling, but _ready_.

 

The first thing he saw were wide, dull, brown eyes, and equally dark hair that flopped over a face. It was Brendon, and Pete was at a loss.

 

"Uh...W-"

 

"I just- I wanted to," Brendon looked jittery, and Pete took a moment to notice that he was all covered up again; Skin was pale, but held a pink tinge behind it, and eyes were dull, but rich brown once again.

The boy sighed quietly, eyes clenching for a moment before he spoke with a nod. "I wanted to apologize."  
  
Pete only quirked an eyebrow, but Brendon only smiled nervously and rocked on his heels awkwardly. "O-Oh- yeah, come in." Pete backed up and waved the other boy inside, both hands dropping limply, forgetting about the knife for a second.

Brendon's eyes lingered on the blade as he stepped inside, watching Pete click the door shut once more. "That uh- t-the knife-"  
  
Pete paled, "Oh shit- sorry, I didn't-"  
  
"No- I get it," Brendon smiled broadly and nodded, more to himself than to Pete. "Good thinking." Pete nodded slowly, eyes wider than usual as he cleared his throat and placed the knife on the hallway table for the moment- he'd put it back later, just to spare his mom and dad the find.

 

"So...what did you wanna talk about?" Pete squinted lightly, hands finding his pockets. Brendon sighed and moved to sit on the couch, teeth worrying his lip as he glanced around nervously- staring at everything but Pete.

Just as Pete was about to try his name again, the boy spoke up with a soft look in his eyes. "I'm sorry for how Ryan- I'm sorry for what I-"

 

Pete's sigh made the words die where they stood. "You need to apologize to Joe, not me."

  
Shaking his head quickly, Brendon stared up at Pete with impossibly wide eyes. "N-No- I mean- yeah, but-" His chest puffed up as he stifled another sigh, before he spoke in a low, calm voice. "I don't really know him. I only really know, you."

Pete hated that he understood. He hated that he was taking pity too. He still hadn't forgiven himself for the people he'd torn apart- so how the fuck could he forgive someone else for the same crime?

 

"I'll- I'll talk to Joe...when I can but, but I just wanted to...to apologize, I guess."

 

Pete's Adam's apple bobbed- useless, but a habit. Fuck, Brendon seemed so...clueless- innocent even, holy shit. He felt sorry for the kid. And, well, at least he was _trying_ , unlike Ryan.

 

Ryan. Huh.

 

That _reminded_ Pete.

 

 

"Is Ryan gonna apologize too? He did more than you did."

 

 

Brendon shrugged quickly, eyes wide and head shaking. "I dunno- I haven't uh...I haven't really talked to him, since then."

 

"Oh." The sound was soft, and Pete felt the sinkhole of pity in his stomach get deeper and deeper with each second. He chewed his lip. Okay, fuck, his mind was tearing itself apart with its arguments. He wanted to offer Brendon a semblance of friendship, an offer of sitting with them at lunch, something to rescue him from isolation without Ryan. But, the other didn't want to make decisions without the other guys.

  
And then his eyes focused back onto Brendon. He looked tiny, shaky, and pale. He looked how Pete had felt when he'd first come back to the town, and Pete knew he at least had to try.

 

"If you want uh...you can, you can hang out with us, at school. I mean- only if you-"

 

"Yeah." Brendon was beaming, but Pete noticed something odd flash in his eyes for a moment, all before his face dropped into a furrowed brow. "Uh- Pete?"

 

"Uh huh?"

 

"Can I- I washed some of it off." Brendon tugged back his sweater paw- that Pete was only just noticing, to reveal pale, blotchy skin. "Can I- can you-"

"Yeah, it's okay dude. Bathroom, second door on the left." Brendon nodded gratefully and started scampering towards the stairs, while Pete retook the knife with an intention towards the kitchen, before he stopped Brendon dead in his tracks with a call. "Uh- I think I'm a little darker than you but…" Pete shrugged, but Brendon only smiled gratefully. "It's okay, I just- I gotta…"

 

Pete nodded, and so did Brendon, both understanding each other with little to no effort.

 

As Pete came back from putting the knife away, he found Brendon standing near the front door with a shifty, skittish look about him. He practically jumped when Pete called out to him, "Brendon?"

The boy jolted and snapped to look at him, acting as though he'd been caught red-handed in something depraved; He reminded Pete of a jittery cat, but nevertheless, Pete decided to ignore it.

 

"You okay dude?"

 

Brendon nodded quickly, trying a weak grin. "Yeah I just- I gotta get home, before my mom- s-she like, worries, a lot- so-"  
  
"Yeah, it's cool." Pete nodded with a warm smile that he hoped was calming, before drifting over to the door and pulling it open for Brendon. The younger boy skittered outside with a final, strained smile, before setting off down the street at a brutal pace that left Pete with a brow furrowed in confusion.

 

He shut the door once more, taking a moment to give breathy, bewildered laughs at the random, jutting intrusion, before hopping back up the staircase and pushing back into his room.

Pete took a slumped seat in his desk chair, grabbing his phone once again and going back to the group chat without a care in the world.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Every nerve in Pete's body was _screaming_.

 

Everything itched, froze, strained, shivered, ached- all at once. It was brutal, painful, and Pete didn't know why he was feeling it- he didn't have nerves. He did know what had caused it whatever, and the only thing that could keep it at bay, was lost.

 

His syringe, his medicine. His parents kept it in their bathroom for safe keeping, but as Pete rooted through bottles, vials and shelves desperately- he couldn't find it.

 

Oh fuck- oh fuck, without it he'd- shit, where the hell was it?

 

Pete grabbed a bottle in desperation, almost sobbing when he heard the rattle of pills inside. He tossed it back into the pile before fishing up another; Ibuprofen- no, shit-

With a frustrated growl, Pete kept searching, brain buzzing with all kinds of tricky chemical names as he searched for the capital 'N' of Neurotriptyline.  
The clear liquid that would stop the pain, the vial that would keep him human- but fuck, Pete couldn't fucking find it, oh god-

Everything struck him like a lightning rod, and Pete froze, eyes wide and jaw hanging open tensely.

 

It wasn't there.

 

Pete stumbled back from the medicine cabinet with a shaky exhale, the urge to collapsed onto the tiles and scream in fear climbing up his throat. Shaking his head with a violent jerk, Pete narrowed his eyes and soldiered out of the bathroom, a mission written clearly in his mind.

  
It couldn't be gone. It hadn't left the fucking house. It had to be somewhere.

 

Bathrooms, bedrooms; Bedside tables, medicine cabinets. Those were logical, but they rendered nothing.

Pantry, boxes, drawers- not so logical, but just as useless.

Pete had been darting around the house frantically for a good twenty minutes, hands speedy and brain hazy with the names of anything drug-like in the house, and yet- he hadn't found the Neurotriptyline.

 

Pete stopped in the living room, face blank and mind blanker.

  
He glanced at the front door, then at the stairs, before letting his eyes fall shut with an unneeded shaky exhale.

 

He had two options.

 

One: He bolted it over to the church. Slammed through the doors, pleaded for his parent's help. Safe, warm, the only thing he really wanted to do, but he knew he couldn't make it in time.

He'd turn before he reached the church, he'd arrive drooling and growling like an animal. He'd assault some poor person, he might kill somebody- shit, Pete didn't want to add to his already way too high body count.

 

No, no- he'd have to take option two: Lock himself away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was like those werewolf movies Pete had watched on TV when he was a kid, way after bedtime, and very much not allowed.

Silver chains, a stake in the ground, a cage, sometimes. Pete's set-up wasn't that elaborate, admittedly; He wasn't _that_ extra, c'mon.

 

He sat on the floor beside his bed, limbs squished and restrained by the cool leather of every belt he'd found in the house.

They might be a little mad at first, but they'd understand. They wouldn't mind the teeth marks, it was for the greater good.

 

One belt was pushed into his mouth, teeth behind it for the moment, but Pete knew he'd be biting at it and snarling into the leather before too long.

His wrists were bound in more than three knots each, tethered to the bedposts and to each other. His legs were the same, belts stripped and looped around them tightly, joining his legs in a shitty, bondage version of a mermaid tail.

 

At least bondage could be fun. This wasn't. Not at all.

 

But it was _necessary_ , _yeah yeah_ , Pete _knew_.

 

Before tying himself up in something like really bad Shibari, Pete had scrawled a note to his family on the desk.

He wasn't sure what he'd written word-for-word, he'd been a bit too panicky about not restraining himself and breaking into 'feral' mode while he was still free, but Pete was pretty sure it was along the lines of:

 

_Hey guys, the fucking medicine's fucking gone, so I'm turning crazy again, v sorry. Tase me, then take me to the hospital I guess. Love you. Sorry you had to see me like this again._

 

_PS: And the belts aren't a kinky thing, they're a precaution stop fucking laughing Andrew._

 

Okay, maybe it had actually been more mature than that.

 

With a groan, Pete tipped his head back and sighed, wrists twisting against the belts that held them uncomfortably against the posts. Fuck, he was scared. The cobras in his stomach were unbearable, fuck, he felt like he was gonna throw up. The taste of pseudo bile in his throat was fucking detestable, but there was nothing he could do about it. God, he didn't want to turn back into a- fuck, he prayed his parents would get back soon. He was scared- oh fuck, oh fuck, oh-

Pete sobbed dryly, eyes clenching shut as he trembled, groaning painfully at the itch.

The achy itch was getting worse; It felt like the strongest itching powder in world mixed with fire ants, mixed with crumbs, nettles, needles- shit, mixed with sand- goddammit. and the fear inside of Pete grew stronger with every second.

 

His brain had started feeling hazy, almost like he was slipping out of control, when-

 

 

"Pete?"

 

 

There was a soft knock at his door, along with the high voice he recognized as his sister's. He wanted to call out, to tell her to run away, to barricade herself in her room- but around the belt, all that escaped him was a muffled sob, all as he tried to keep himself in control, awake- _sane_.

 

"Pete?" Hillary's voice flared with panic as she tumbled inside, wide eyes only shooting wider at the sight that met her. "Oh my god- Pete, what the-?" She was still clad in her church dress, home in the middle of the day for lunch, he supposed.

 

Pete gave her a desperate look, before nodding over to the desk as he squinted, struggling to keep his hands on the steering wheel of his mind. Hillary bolted over to the desk and read over the note, jaw falling as her brown eyes scanned frantically.

She finally tore her eyes away with a shaky inhale, eyes wide at Pete as she did what he'd never had expected her to do.

 

Hillary walked towards him, dropped to her knees, and threw her arms around his shoulders, engulfing him in a bone-crushing, trembling hug. Pete's eyes were wide, but he just about registered her sniffs and quiet, gasped sobs before she sat back on her heels with teary eyes and a shake of her head. "I d-don't- I don't want you to- I don't want you to go."

 

Well, Pete's heart had been doing a little better recently, but there it went again.

 

He wriggled the belt out of his mouth and smiled a shaky smile at his sister, shaking his head with dry eyes but a cracking voice. "I don't wanna go either."

A sudden sob wracked her chest, and she collapsed back into Pete in a second, but Pete could tell she was forcing herself to keep silent. He wished his arms were free, he wished he could hug her. He wished he was alive, that there'd be no chance of him turning into a homicidal monster that would try to eat her face-

 

Shit he was gonna try to eat her face in a few minutes.

 

"Hillary- Hill, listen to me." Pete's voice was trembling but serious, his eyes the same. She sat back on her heels and sniffed, wiping her eyes on her sleeve as she nodded with a trembling lip. "Y-Yeah?"

"Go to your room, and hide." Pete hated this. Fuck, he hated being like this. "I don't know how strong- or- or- Just, just hide, okay? Find mom and dad, if you can- but, just- fuck-" His words were getting blurrier in his head as he started slipping from control, a more primal disease engulfing his brain.

Pete managed to hold on for just long enough to shimmy the belt back into his mouth, before nodding over to the door with wide, reassuring eyes. Hillary sniffed but nodded, eyes still red and hands still shaky as she paced over- grabbing the note on the way.

She only stopped at the frame, giving Pete a soft, yet miserable smile. "I love you. And- I- I'm sorry- I-"  
  
Pete smiled as best he could under the leather, but the crinkles at the sides of his eyes were enough to send the smile on her face growing a little wider.

 

And with that she left, and Pete let his head drop as the final, controlled edges of his mind were tainted with that dark, hazy void that he could never fully keep at bay.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It felt like watching a movie.

  
A first-person movie. With a really dumb, annoying, and aggressive main character.

  
Pete was completely powerless, he couldn't move, control himself, _stop_ himself; He was just along for the ride, confined to watching this dumbass growl and snap at people like a dog.

 

Pete watched himself snarl and fight against the bindings as his family watched him from the door frame, eyes wide and horrified as they stared at the monster that had once again claimed their son.

They'd read the letter, they knew what had happened, and Pete could see the heavy-looking tazer in his dad's hand, but the man didn't seem to want to use it at all.

 

Now that Pete thought about it, they'd never actually seen _him_ like that.

 

Sure, they'd seen other people, drooling, shuffling and snarling like animals, but Pete had been caught in a net long before he'd even found them; Carted off to an internment camp before they'd even known he was back.

  
Pete watched himself snarl, flecks of spit bubbling over the leather in his mouth. He must look rabid, he was sure of it. Fuck, he wanted his dad to put him out of his misery; It'd hurt, probably. A spark, a numbing moment- and then a darkness he couldn't feel.

He'd wake up human again, in a hospital bed, dressed in white, and surrounded by family- maybe even friends. Huh. Sounded a little like Heaven.

 

"Peter-" His mom's words were a pleading gasp, and at them, something seemed to steel in the man. His blue eyes glazed over, a sense of duty overpowering anything emotional as he stepped forwards with care.  
Turns out Boy Scouts had been pretty useful in the long run, thanks dad; Pete had tied himself up pretty amazingly. The belt in his mouth, and the one around his neck that was currently _choking him_ _because he was pulling on it like a fucking idiot_ -  
  
Pete sighed internally. He snapped forwards at this dad, teeth chewing at the leather as the taser buzzed to life, a white streak lighting the prongs for a moment as the man hesitated.

Then, Pete made a vicious snarling sound that sounded perfectly demonic, and the electricity was pressed into Pete's neck with a burst of fear.

 

Pete spasmed for a minute, throat gurgling like he was choking and body going numb. Everything ached and _hurt_ behind the foggy visor of dead nerves, but soon enough, he slumped against the bedpost, and his vision went a pitch, familiar, black.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Do you have it?"

Mikey's eyebrow was quirked, and Ryan's eyes were cool as both boys stared him down. Brendon gulped nervously, before pulling the syringe and vial of Neurotriptyline from his pocket; They belonged to Pete, without them, he'd turn back into a- one of _those_.

  
Mikey laughed wickedly and Ryan smiled, eyes promising and dark, but Brendon felt sick, he felt as sick as a dog. Screw all those scientists that said they couldn't feel things anymore- Brendon felt like he was gonna projectile vomit in second.

Taking the syringe into his hand, Mikey quickly dropped it to the concrete and screwed his toe into it, the cap of his boot making it shatter under the rough weight. Ryan took the vial and turned to where the sidewalk met the grass, pouring the clear contents into the green grass before letting Mikey deal with the empty glass vial once again.

The glass crunched loudly, and it was the only thing in Brendon's mind as his stomach writhed and twisted painfully.

 

Fuck he was gonna turn into that girl in the Exorcist.

 

This was a crime; Stealing a PDS sufferer's Neurotriptyline was a _criminal_ _offense_ \- and god, they were doing it out of _jealousy_. Fucking jealousy, of all things.

They couldn't stand that Pete had preferred living friends over them. They believed themselves superior, and now that Brendon thought about it, he understood why Pete had left.

 

This wasn't fun anymore, this was- this was just cruel.

 

This wasn't scaring a few assholes anymore, this wasn't growling at people and watching them yelp for a moment. No, no, this was- this was worse, so much _worse_.

Mocking a brother about his dead sister, stealing a sufferer's medicine- forcing him to turn and maybe hurt his family- oh fuck, no- Brendon hadn't thought- oh god, please no. He prayed Pete had had the good sense to- to hide himself away, or barricade himself in- or-

 

"What's up with you, B?"

 

Mikey's voice was enough to make Brendon retch, it was akin to a hairball in his throat. He'd stolen that from Pete- all under the pretense of 'apologizing', all under Ryan and Mikey's control. Fuck, he knew they'd forced him, but Brendon had meant every single 'sorry' that had left his mouth.

And shit, Pete had been so fucking _kind_. He'd extended an olive branch, even after what Brendon had done- and _oh god_.

 

Mikey and Ryan looked happy, chatting to themselves quietly.

 

"That motherfucker's gonna get sent back to 'correction'-"

 

"Oh god, I can't wait to see that Trohman kid's face."

 

Mikey shook his head, grin wide and wicked. "Nah, _Stump_ \- now _there's_ a good reaction." Ryan laughed and nodded, eyes so...dark; Fuck, Brendon had never seen them full of so much...raw _evilness_. This wasn't the Ryan he knew, this wasn't the Ryan he'd fallen in love with; This wasn't his best friend, his _boyfriend_ \- not anymore.

 

"He's gonna get exposed for being the corpse-fucker he is."

Mikey chortled with a light snort, grin wide and eyes shifting over to the hills that lay just behind their street. "We'll have to keep an eye on Battery hill."

 

Brendon had chosen the wrong side.

 

He said nothing as he turned on his heel, hands shoving into his pockets and face still blank as he paced away as quickly as he could, ignoring the calls of his name from the other two.

 

He'd fucked up. He'd fucked up so bad, but- but Brendon was gonna try to make it right. He had to. He needed to- fuck, he wanted- oh god it was all his fault, but-

 

 

He had to try.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Frank already looked suspicious.

 

Eyebrow quirked at the known dead boy at his door, Frank sighed and waved him inside. "Mikey's not here, so-"

 

"I'm not here for Mikey." Brendon raised is eyes to Frank, wide but full of determination. Fuck, he hoped Gerard wasn't here; That guy defended Mikey to the extremes. Brendon understood they were brothers but- "I'm here for you."

Frank scoffed a little, but Brendon quickly chimed in once more, killing the exhausted cop's words in a second.

 

"I did something- I- I fucked up."

 

The man furrowed his brow, but nodded at the couch. Brendon took a seat, and Frank settled into the armchair opposite, fishing up a notebook from the messy coffee table, before grabbing a pen and settling forwards.

 

"What did you do?"

 

Brendon squirmed a little, before he nodded to himself with closed eyes. He snapped them open the moment he started speaking, brain bouncing with screaming confessions, sobs for forgiveness, and cold hard facts about Frank's kinda brother-in-law/step-little brother.

 

"Pete Wentz is gonna go feral."

 

Frank's jaw opened, the gurgle of the start of a word getting stuck as Brendon kept speaking with a note of clear confidence and truth in his voice.

 

"I stole his Neurotriptyline, but- Mikey and Ryan told me to."

 

Frank's hand scrawled down the facts, but his face stayed frozen; Brendon supposed it was the result of years of practice, but he tore his thoughts away from it and forced himself to stay on track, fighting off all tangents that tried to overtake him with a pointy stick.

 

"They made me steal it. They made me go to his house and _steal_ it, and now he's- he must be- oh god-" Brendon growled at himself as his words began breaking, but a quick rub of his temples and he was back, all honest eyes and a voice as clear as water.

 

"Something's wrong with them, Frank. I don't know what- but, they think they're... _better_. They wanna- if you don't agree, or- or- they wanna _pull you down_ , and- and, Pete didn't want to hang out with them, so-"

"This is a serious accusation, Brendon." Frank's voice was low and warning, almost testing Brendon to see if his words held a lie, giving him a chance to back-pedal, testing him like litmus paper. When the boy didn't waver, Frank sighed deeply, eyes clearing and head shaking to himself.

 

"Fuck, Mikey." Frank raised his eyes to Brendon, voice tired and breathed. " _I know_ there's something wrong with him."

 

Brendon sighed shakily, beyond relieved the man had believed him.

 

"He's- god, okay, Brendon," Frank rubbed at his eyes for a moment, before nodding at the boy. "Stay away from Mikey- and Ryan, okay?" Brendon nodded eagerly; He'd been meaning to, anyway.

 

Frank threw his hands up weakly, "And, I guess I'll go check on the Wentz-"

 

His radio buzzed from the table, static sounds filled the air as he fetched it. The voice on the other end spoke quickly, frantically even. "We- We have a- a 280- all units- we have a 280- at the-"

 

Frank's eyes widened to the size of plates and he stared blankly at Brendon as the voice read an address that sounded familiar. The short man gulped and nodded, Adam's apple bobbing roughly.

 

 

 

"Get home, Brendon. Right now."

 

 

 


	11. It Lit Me Up Like A Rag Soaked In Gasoline

 

Everything was white, and _bright_.

 

Like, _too_ bright. Like, so bright it hurt Pete's eyes.

 

Pete finally awoke with a squint, face scrunched up as his pupils desperately tried to adjust for the light.

 

"Pete?"

"Pete- honey, are you okay?"

 

A tiny groan burst from Pete's throat as he turned his head, scratchy pillow shifting under his cheek as he squinted at his family.

His mom, his dad, Andrew and Hillary were all sat at his bedside, faces dropped in worry, but as Pete's eyes adjusted further, he noticed the red eyes, the dark circles, the general exhaustion.

Rolling his shoulders- wait. Pete groaned in confusion and looked down, eyes quickly widening and throat whining as he noticed the straps that tethered him to the bed.

They were buckled cotton, and there was one cutting into his neck as he tried to stare down. They were over his chest, his stomach, his legs- and as Pete tried to tug one loose, he felt something tight around his wrist.

 

Pete whined and looked at his hand, neck craning painfully to see that they were tethered to the bed frame. Okay, this really wasn't a situation Pete had ever wanted to really be in. Especially not in front of his family.

 

Pete glanced back at his parents and siblings, smiling nervously and clearing his throat, voice coming out rasped and rough. "Uh...what- what happened?"

His mom and dad glanced at each other, Andrew and Hillary glanced at each other, and Pete felt like he was desperately missing something.  
He blinked for a second, wait, the medi- Oh shit.

 

As realization blanked over Pete's face, along with a barrage of thudding memories, his family gave him pitying smiles. Pete groaned and dropped a side of his face into the pillow, wishing his hands were free so he could bundle up in a cocoon and not have to face the world.

 

There was a knock on the door not long after, and it was just enough to force Pete's eyes open.

 

What he assumed was a doctor paced inside, flanked by two nurses, and all three of them wearing surgical masks and plastic gloves. Just in case.

Pete held back a sigh; He wasn't infectious or anything, god- they were doctors, and nurses, they should know this shit.

 

"How are you feeling, Mr…" The doctor squinted down at his clipboard for a moment before nodding, "Mr. Wentz?"

 

Pete shifted a little, trying to sit up despite the restraints but only managing an odd tilt towards them. "I'm fine. I'd uh...I'd be a little better if you, let me out of these things."

 

"A precaution. We didn't want you escaping when-" The woman trailed off, but quickly picked up her words again. "Well, you understand."

Pete held back a glare and more snarky words; He always tended to be a little pissy at hospitals, but, admittedly, he wasn't entirely sure _why_.

The doctor nodded to a nurse, and in an instant, the small woman had unbuckled the restraints. Or, most of them, anyway. Pete's left hand was still restrained, and the moment he pulled on it with a few choice words about to leave his tongue, the doctor interjected.  
  
"It's just a precaution." She smiled at Pete formally, "Sometimes patients revert, and more medication needs to be applied, so…" The doctor nodded with another polite smile at Pete's family, before nodding towards the door and leaving with a quick reassurance that she'd come to check on him in a little while.

 

However, nobody had a chance to really speak before a knock came again, and Pete's dad stood to open it.

 

Pete felt two, very contradicting things simultaneously.

 

One half of him lit up like a witch in a Puritan town, chest rising and eyes showing a grin that was too shocked to reach his mouth. His friends had come to see him, they hadn't forgotten, or- or, freaked out and tried to stay away; No, they'd come to _see him_ , and Pete's heart leapt at the sight of them.

 

The other half shriveled and died, stomach writhing and twisting in pure embarrassment and _fear_. Fear and embarrassment at being seen like this, he supposed.

Tied to the bed frame like an animal, and that wasn't even to mention how he _looked_ ; In order to avoid all kinds of pains and infections, his contacts had been removed, and during the process of being moved, then restrained and fought with- all his skin cover had come off in streaks of handprints.

 

Their eyes were wide as they stepped in, but they held nothing malicious, and that calmed Pete down somewhat. _Somewhat_.

  
"How are you doing, dude?"

 

Pete nodded at Joe, smiling quick and small as he tried to sit up further, despite the band holding him back. "Fine, thanks." Pete almost grimaced at how rough his voice sounded, it was like his vocal chords were being dragged over sandpaper, _holy shit_.

But despite his friends coming to see him, they didn't seem too conversational; It was odd, but now that Pete thought about it, perhaps they'd visited out of a want to _know_.

Pete understood. Were he in their position, he would've made the visit too. He would have wanted to see his interned friend with his own two eyes.

 

The room was quiet, but not tense or awkward in any way, thankfully; His family had known his friends for too long, his friends had known his family for too long, there was only a silence fueled by shock. Shock and...something contemplative. His friends were no doubt burning with questions on what had happened, but his family were most likely replaying the events in their heads, with brutal clarity.

 

Pete could only sit there helplessly, hand bound, body folded oddly, and face blank as he prayed for the doctor to return, to let him go _home_.

 

Another knock came, but the hope was quickly dampened as blue uniforms stood at the door frame. Pete tried not to squint as he tried to make out faces, but he quickly made out two familiar faces; Joe's dad, and, _Frank_. Weird, but- but, oh shit.

  
Not taking Neurotriptyline was a criminal offense- oh shit. Oh fuck, he was gonna get sent to prison- no, no- he was gonna get sent back to 'correction'. Oh god, Pete couldn't go back, he couldn't- he didn't want to- he'd run away, he couldn't go back there-

 

"We'll cut to the point," Joe's dad started, obviously trying not to be perturbed by his own son's presence; Delivering what Pete assumed was bad news to one of his son's friends could be tricky, understandably.

"A refusal to take a daily dosage of Neurotriptyline is usually met with a sentence at a correction camp."  
Pete opened his mouth to argue. Fuck, he hadn't _refused_. It'd disappeared, what the fuck was he supposed to do? However, the tired, harrowed look in Joe's dad's eyes made his jaw snap shut, teeth clicking as he shirked back. That dark tint behind his eyes had settled in after Lauren...apparently, that's what Joe had said, anyway.

 

"However."

 

Pete wanted to sigh so loudly it'd turn into a scream, but he refrained, holding it in with a curious raise of his eyebrows.

 

Joe's dad glanced at Frank, who's eyes were filled with knowing. "Someone came forwards and confessed to stealing your Neurotriptyline. So, you'll be excused this time."

 

Pete shook his head softly, eyes wide and mouth parted in a quiet choke. "W-Who- Why- no, wait," Pete squinted blearily, ears filling with buzzes as the voices of his family, and those of his friends, tried countless furious questions, before Frank cut in with a sigh and a nod.

 

"Brendon Urie. You know him, don't you?"

 

Frank's eyes were solely on Pete, firm yet soft- and full of secrets. Pete nodded almost robotically, ears filling with his parents' questions and Joe, Andy and Patrick's indignant scoffs and mutters that promised revenge.

The shorter cop nodded, bleary eyes tired but alert, and wise, somehow. "He confessed to stealing it, but he was enlisted by a…" Frank squinted for a short moment, before his eyes lit up dully once more. "Ryan Ross, and a, Mikey Way."

 

The first name was a little dubious, but the second was clear and confident. Pete knew Frank wasn't supposed to be divulging case facts like this, especially with the steady, mildly warning look Joe's dad was sending him. But the inked man only shrugged lightly, "They'll all know before sunset anyway, chief."

 

Joe's dad visibly held back a sigh, but quickly nodded an acknowledgement at his son, before leaving the room. If Frank was gonna keep spilling secrets, he didn't want to be there, most likely; Sure, he might not mind, but one thing was paper and another was real life.

 

Frank kept his eyes trained on Pete, almost blocking out the others. "We're running an investigation on them, we'll need a few character statements." Hazel eyes moved to the three, living boys at Pete's other bedside. "From you too. If you don't mind."

 

None of them could muster words, they could only nod, completely dumbfounded, as Frank left with a curt nod of his own.

 

A few seconds passed, and yet another knock came.

 

 

Pete hoped it was the fucking doctor this time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Frank watched the kid through the blinded glass, eyes dull as they raked over.

 

Pete Wentz, nervous and quiet. He'd heard stuff about the kid, he'd seen him in a cell before- drunk out of his mind and asleep on the floor. He'd seen his parents come drag him home, and Frank had heard an insane amount of depraved rumors that circulated the boy.

 

He might have believed them once, but this kid...this jittery, tiny kid did not seem capable of half the shit Frank had heard about.

 

Perhaps he'd changed. Frank wasn't completely sure what had happened to zombies, he wasn't trained in 'Sensitivity to PDS sufferers', but the fact that they needed a course at all was a good enough indicator that whatever they'd dealt with hadn't been pretty.

That, combined with the bodies that showed up on Battery hill every now and then, and Frank knew. He knew living like that could cripple a bouncy, mischievous kid into...a shell, just about.

 

He let out a breath. At least this shell wasn't causing trouble anymore, that was a plus.

 

Frank paced into the room, settling in the chair and readying his pen and notepad without a word. He flicked the recorder to life, stating their state, the department, the case, and finally, his own name and rank, before turning to Pete with deadly serious eyes.

 

"Name? Age?"

 

"Pete Wentz. 18. Or, twenty, technically, but-"

 

Frank nodded quickly, hand automatically scrawling away. "Your occupation? Education level?"

 

"I'm a...I'm a student. A- a, High school, student."

 

Frank held back a nod that time, instead just focusing on his questions.

 

"What is your relationship to Ryan Ross?"

 

"I uh...We, we were friends, for a little while. Like, a month, maybe."

 

"What is your relationship to Michael Way?"

 

Pete froze at the name for a second, before quickly speaking with a dull nod of his own. "The same as Ryan." Pete shrugged lightly, head shaking lightly. "We were friends for a month, or something."

 

"How often do you see them nowadays?"

 

 

"At school, just, in passing. I don't really...hang out, with them, anymore."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The kid had weird hair. It wasn't oddly cut or anything, it just...changed shades, a lot. One moment, it looked as red as flames, the next, it was a mousey brown, and Frank watching him behind the glass with a furrowed brow.

 

Patrick Stump. Mild-mannered, polite, a good church kid if there'd ever been one before. But, his choice of friends had always been confusing, precisely for that reason.  
A kid like that, a kid so innocent and well behaved hanging out with notorious troublemakers and bad students had always been odd, but Frank didn't care about his relationships, after all. He was here to give statements on Mikey and Ryan, not to tell his life's story.

 

Frank had thought about getting a statement from Gerard. He really had.

 

His husband was still in the dark about all of it, but it was of his own volition. Mikey was...poisoning him; Taking care of the younger boy was exhausting, and Frank hated to effect it was having on Gerard.

Mikey didn't deserve any slither of kindness his older brother gave him. He treated Gerard like shit, he threatened him, scared him, disobeyed him-

 

Fuck, okay. Focus on the case. The case. Not Gera-

 

The case.

 

Frank walked into the blank room, sat down, readied his notes, and turned on the recorder. He introduced the location, situation, and himself, before launching into the same questions he'd asked Pete- who was currently patiently waiting for his three friends in the waiting room.

  
Patrick answered similarly, although, there was more anger behind his words; Dark and smouldering, and all for Ryan and Mikey.

Frank had to stop himself smirking often; The kid reminded him of himself. That fierce loyalty in his powder eyes had been in Frank's more times than he could count.  
He had the flitting thought of letting Patrick loose on the perpetrators, but he quickly shook the thought away. It wouldn't end well, but goddamn, if it wouldn't be satisfying.

 

"What is your knowledge of the charges against Ryan Ross and Michael Way?"

 

Patrick bristled, shoulders tense and eyes darker than before as he glared at thin air. "That they...coerced Brendon Urie to steal my- to steal, Pete Wentz's, Neurotriptyline."

 

"What is your relationship to the victim? And to the suspects?"

 

"I'm- Pete's my best friend. He's my- I- I care about him. I've known him forever."

 

"And the suspects?"

 

Patrick shrugged. "I saw them around before they turned. Never talked to them. I know Pete hung out with them for a little while, but- but...not anymore."

 

"How long have you known them?"

 

"I've known Pete since I was eleven. And, I only really met Ryan and Mikey like, a few months ago. Still haven't really ever, talked to them."

 

Frank's hand scrawled the shorthand version down, before moving onto the next question with caution.

 

"How do you feel about what they, allegedly, did?"

 

"It isn't alleged." Patrick's words were a snarl, from start to end, and all coupled with a sneer that was aimed at people that weren't there.

 

 

"And I'm fucking mad, how else would I feel?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Frank really needed a bottle of water right now. Or a nap. Both, preferably.

 

He rubbed his temples as he stared at the sheriff's son behind the glass. Joe Trohman. Son of Dave Trohman. He'd really have to be careful here. The wrong string of words could get the sheriff in trouble, and by extension, the station.

Frank wasn't stupid, he knew Dave probably told his family tidbits about their cases; Hell, Frank did the same with Gerard. That man had heard way too many gruesome details over bowls of spaghetti for an entire lifetime.

 

Joe was well behaved enough, just quiet enough to not bring much bad attention or infamy to himself. Of course, being a friend of the notorious Pete Wentz was enough to raise suspicion on its own, but Joe was a good kid, despite the assumptions people made.

Not the best at school, but fuck it, who was? Good at music, Frank was pretty certain on that one; He'd remembered a night of reading through old files, looking for something pivotal to a new case, and he very clearly remembered Dave sleepily mentioning something about getting his son a guitar if he, at least, got Bs on his report card.

 

The routine was firmly taking root in Frank, and he quickly found himself scrawling down answers to his questions.

 

"So," Frank braced on his forearms, eyes serious and pressing, yet reassuring.

 

"Do you know what's going on in Ryan and Michael's lives? Do you know their backgrounds, have they had any hardships?"

 

Joe furrowed his brow, but quickly reeled off what he knew. And it turns out he knew a lot. Frank couldn't bring himself to blame Dave for slipping up, but at least his son had had the good sense to not mention his dad's involvement in his knowledge. He still looked like he was holding something back, however; Like the darkness behind Patrick's eyes, but magnified into a million shards.

 

"I think they're okay now, but they- I mean, they died, right? So, that's pretty fucked up."

 

Frank shrugged and nodded, okay, he had to agree there. But he needed specifics, and just as he tried to press him, Joe kept speaking coolly.

 

"I mean, I think Ryan got murdered, right? I saw that in the newspapers, like...some guy took him to the woods, right? Raped and murdered him, right?"

 

Frank said nothing, pressed a finger to his lips but nodded. It wouldn't do to confirm shit like that on tape, but face-to-face was a different case. Joe smiled both knowingly and gratefully, but kept speaking, on Mikey, this time.

 

"And Mikey...he killed himself, right? Like, Pete, but not." Joe tilted his head, eyes squinting and face concentrated as his minded wracked for the old facts.

 

"Like, he hung himself- Pete didn't, do, _that_ , but- yeah, you get it, I mean…" Joe shrugged.

 

 

"But, if he killed himself, something must've been wrong, right?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That was something Frank hadn't really thought about before.

 

Sure, motives had began to be investigated into Mikey Way's suicide, but- then the rising had come, and everyone had been far too busy dealing with the zombie apocalypse to really care about why some teen had hung himself in his closet.

 

That case had been how he met Gerard in the first place.

 

Frank had felt awful for him; Mikey had been the only person he'd had, and then he'd been gone. Gerard had been a vision, the prettiest fucking guy Frank had ever seen. And for some insane reason, Gerard had thought the same about him.

Some things had led to others, and Gerard had moved into his house. By the time the dead rose, Gerard's surname had been hyphenated with Iero, there had been rings on their fingers, and they'd been leading a perfectly domestic life.

 

And, then Mikey had been back, and Frank had finally got to meet his brother-in-law.

 

And it hadn't been good.

 

Gerard had mentioned Mikey before, he'd talked about him endlessly on darker days, but Frank had always listened patiently, hand smoothing through his husband's hair as he listened to the same old stories with a saint's patience.

 

Mikey had sounded stern, a little cold, but good deep down; Moments of sappiness and softness always seeped through, even in the firmest people, Frank supposed. But the Mikey that had arrived at their door...that didn't seem like someone who could be soft or sappy at any point.

He was harsher, colder, sadistic, even. He relished in scaring the hell out of his brother, either by snarling at him, snapping at him, and by refusing to cover himself up- all of it was small, subtle, and nothing too serious, but it was just enough.

And then there was the quiet side of things. The manipulation, the graphic descriptions about dying, the craving of attention from Gerard, but at the same time, the pushing away of his older brother. The suicide threats, the murder threats, and the pure hatred of Frank who saw through his game like clingfilm.

 

 

Frank tried to push the thoughts to the back of his mind as he stared at the final kid.

 

Andy Hurley. Good kid, decent grades, musician- the good parts of the others with all the bad trimmed away. Vegan and a straightedge, his mom must've been proud.

Again, it was a weird combination, him and the likes of Pete Wentz, but Frank wasn't one to judge, he'd had his own number of odd friends over the years.

 

He stepped inside, prepared his notes, and set up the recorder, before beginning the friendliest interrogation the police force could offer.

Andy answered in a similar way to the others, although, his fury was much better subdued, hidden under layers of soft, high voice and polite, eloquent and brief words.

 

"What are the general characters of both Ryan Ross and Michael Way?"

 

"Before or after?"

 

Frank smiled; Smart kid. "Both."

 

"Okay," Andy shuffled in his seat for a moment, before nodding deeply. "Ryan was quiet before, smart, liked music- that kinda thing. Mikey was similar to how he is now, but he was...kinder, before, I think." Andy huffed in disbelief and shook his head lightly. "I mean, there's no way he could've been _worse_ , right?"

 

"Do you think the crime was out of their characters?"

 

Andy shook his head instantly. "No."  
  
Frank waited a beat, wondering if the boy would follow up with something, but at the blank, finished look on Andy's face, Frank nodded curtly and moved a hand over the recorder's stop button, ready to press it.

 

 

"Thank you for your time."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"How was work?"

 

Frank glanced over at his husband, short hair messy from sleeping moments ago, clad in one of Frank's stolen sweaters, and curled into his covers as he yawned, blearily trying to keep his eyes open.

Frank only pulled off his tie, holding in a sigh and the general overview he usually gave Gerard. He couldn't very well tell his husband he was investigating and building a case against his brother.

 

"Fine."

 

He smiled softly at the telltale sounds of Gerard fighting a yawn away, "Uh huh." Frank quickly changed, not in a mood to prolong the stilted conversation.

Gerard needed his sleep. He'd been so drained, between work, chasing Mikey around and making sure he took his shots, he was so tired nowadays, and Frank hated seeing him like this.

 

Clad in his old shirt and his sweatpants, Frank crawled into the bed, gazing at the pretty way the soft, dim light hit Gerard's sleepy face. He was blinking deeply and at an odd rhythm, still sat up and still burning with the intent to have their customary conversation.

Frank sighed quietly and reached over him, pulling the cord of their bedside lamp before pulling Gerard to the mattress with him gently.

The older man sighed contently and snuggled into Frank's chest, breathing quiet and the soft whines that escaped him even quieter. Frank distracted himself be carding a hand through Gerard's hair carefully, while keeping his free arm under his husband's head as a makeshift, warmer pillow.

 

He loved his husband, he loved him so goddamn much, and he knew he loved Mikey, but the kid was destroying him. The kid was also destroying just about everyone else he got close to, and the pattern wasn't there for nothing. Frank had to-

 

"I love you Frank."

 

Gerard's mumble was soft and muffled by Frank's chest, but the dark-haired man smiled softly and ran a thumb over Gerard's forehead, before pecking it gently. "Love you too, Gee."

His husband made a sleepy sound, before curling closer into his chest, and trying to make more; Trying to prolong a conversation that made sense to him, but that his husband couldn't comprehend. Frank only kissed his hair again, "Get some sleep, Gerard."

 

"Uh huh, love you." With the muffled, slightly coherent mutter, Gerard finally fell silent, only his breathing and pulse thudding under him. Frank took to caressing through his hair again, rubbing tiny circles on his scalp softly, distracting himself from the thoughts that wouldn't let him sleep.

 

If a good enough case was made, then Mikey went to jail. Gerard had lost Mikey once, if he had to lose him again. Fuck. And if Gerard ever found out Frank had helped-

 

 

 

Frank prayed Gerard could forgive him.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh damn, a seemingly normal question? Crazy right?
> 
> A sword or an axe?


	12. Fired Up My Fear Machine, Can't Help What They Drove Into Me

 

Patrick paced forwards, steps heavy and eyes struggling to stay open.

  
Another Monday morning, another sleep-deprived adventure towards school. Patrick had played his usual trick of bolting away, albeit, it was a little harder without Kevin; His older brother had somehow gotten into college. Albeit, _community_ college.

And Megan, well, Megan hadn't even needed to apply; She'd practically been swamped with offers, and once again, she'd been their parent's greatest success story.

 

So, Patrick was left alone, walking to school by himself in the dreary, dark morning light. He yawned heavily, jaw clicking as he groaned through the muffling sound.

In an effort to prolong the walk, seeing as he'd admittedly left a little too early, Patrick decided to take Kevin's old route, as a little tribute he'd never see.

 

His soles pressed into the soft earth of the hill, that was only occasionally disrupted by the hard bumps of rocks and sticks, but soon enough, Patrick was at the highest point. He looked down over the streets, eyes prickling and lidded as he held back more yawns; The morning was always pretty, but the sunset was prettier, in Patrick's opinion. He'd always preferred stars to clouds.

 

Patrick set on his way down the hill, footsteps a little sloppy and a little clumsy in his sleepy stupor. His bag felt like a cross on his shoulders, anchoring him to the ground, his jacket was warm but scratchy, and the rock against his chest bounced into his skin in a maddening rhythm. And that wasn't even to mention the thin string around his neck, cutting and chafing his skin red after so much goddamn shifting.

 

Despite the small annoyances, Patrick just about reached the streets once again without losing his mind. While walking over the hills was nice enough, this part wasn't as enjoyable- for Patrick, at least.

Maybe his taller, stronger, older brother would've been fine with walking down dark, creepy alleys, but Patrick, who was much shorter and squishier- was not.

 

He'd just stepped into the mouth of an alley, heart calming at the light on the other side, but stomach twisting at the figure leaning against the wall in the center.

 

Just walk past him, it'll be fine, he probably won't even say anything, it'll be fine.

  
With a determined nod to himself, Patrick stepped forwards at a hasty pace, eyes down and head lower as he tried to speed past the figure.

He was getting closer, oh shit- no, no, just keep walking. The figure was hooded, hands shoved into pockets and posture relaxed against the wall.

Patrick swallowed the lump in his throat and kept forwards, but the second he'd passed him, the moment he'd taken a footstep away- the figure spoke, and Patrick both winced and growled at the voice.

 

"Eager to get to school, huh?"

 

Mikey fucking Way. Patrick didn't even want to give him the satisfaction, a voice in his head urged him to keep walking, but another wanted to turn and sock the motherfucker in the face.

 

The latter won.

 

Patrick turned, eyes squinted, nose wrinkled, and mouth curled into a closed sneer. Mikey only chuckled, head tipping back against the bricks, he shrugged at Patrick. "What?" He smiled, raising his brow. "You mad your boyfriend went-"

 

Patrick didn't even let Mikey finish his sentence.

 

His fist fired into his jaw like a cannonball, landing with a crunch that made Patrick shudder with satisfaction. Mikey toppled down with a grunt of surprise, one hand cupping his jaw as Patrick stood over him, panting and furious, the image of anger topped off with red knuckles.

Mikey laughed breathlessly, before standing slowly and decidedly, and stopping to stare at Patrick.

 

The redhead gulped, eyes blinking quickly and almost shirking back under the unsettling smile. Patrick was stuck between darting away, and punching him again.

 

He'd always been more of a 'fight', than a 'flight' kinda guy.

 

Another punch, hard and cracking, landing in Mikey's nose- before a sharp hand grabbed his wrist.

  
Patrick yelped, jerking away and trying to pull his hand free as Mikey only laughed and pushed him into the wall opposite them. Grimy bricks, wet spray paint, oddly sticky, smelled awful- Patrick's mind darted from detail to detail as it frantically tried to ignore the threat in front of him.

 

The hand that had apprehended his wrist shot to his neck frantically, almost as though Patrick would take the slight chance to sprint away. Mikey was right, Patrick would've, but with the pale hand bruising at his throat, Patrick could only find the thought to choke and claw at the hand.

He tried digging his nails in, he tried kicking at Mikey's knees, he even tried scratching at his eyes- but nothing worked. Fuck these zombies. Fuck them. They couldn't fucking feel anything, and it was so fucking unfair.

 

Then Patrick saw the glint of metal, and he froze with his heart pounding in his restrained throat.

 

"That shut you up, didn't it?" Mikey's growl was freezing and close, and Patrick could only cough against his hand. It was a pocket knife. Not huge, not tiny either. Fake wooden handle, a glinting blade.

 

Fuck. Fuck- oh god, oh fuck- he was getting held at knife point; What the actual fuck? What- Why- Oh god, he knew Mikey was unhinged- but this shit? Fuck-

Patrick's breathing became erratic, under the threats and the physical hand restraining his breathing. Oh, and the anxiety. Yeah, the anxiety was pretty fucking bad right now.

 

"Shut up."

 

Mikey's nose was wrinkled, but as his hand brought the knife to Patrick's cheek, the redhead's breathing only worsened. "You're pretty." Mikey tilted his head, the edge of the blade pressing into Patrick's cheekbone just enough to redden the skin- but not enough to cut him. "Pete's a lucky guy."

Despite the circumstances, Patrick tried a shake of his head, pulling away from the blade as much as he could. Mikey only laughed, eyes squinted, and rife with amusement. "Oh, he's not?"

Patrick whined painfully under his hand, eyes burning and tongue numb under the bruising grip. Shit, did being a zombie come with super strength? Or was Patrick just that weak?

 

He hoped it was the former. But at the same time, he _prayed_ it was the latter.

 

"I understand." Mikey nodded solemnly, faking seriousness. Eyes fluttering and smile spreading wider. "I've been there before." His voice was dulled, his eyes were red- and Mikey- Fuck, something was up-

 

"You look like him. A little."

 

Patrick's brow furrowed. Pete? Patrick didn't look anything like Pete, what the hell was- "He was skinnier, though. And, blonde. Nicer eyes, too." Patrick ignored the insulting sting and choked a word out. "W-What-"

The knife came a little harder, and Patrick gasped in shock, before whining in pain at the deep sting in his cheek. Mikey's eyes were soft and dull, as though he weren't holding someone up with a knife right now.

 

And then, in a mere second, it all changed.

 

Mikey squeezed his hand and shoved Patrick bad against the bricks. Patrick's head smashed into the bricks with a sickening thud, and the redhead could feel his legs shaking as something warm spread over the back of his head. He prayed it was just a very vivid headache.

The knife was at his Adam's apple now, the tip just pinching into the skin as the redhead tried his best not to hyperventilate. He clenched his eyes shut, lip trembling as he tried not to whimper; Looking weaker than he already did would not be a great start right now.

 

"I know you talked to the police."

 

A sob escaped Patrick as tears flooded from his eyes. Fuck- he just couldn't- oh fuck, he was so fucking scared, oh god, oh god-

Mikey only exhaled, hand squeezing tighter. Patrick was pretty sure his face was red, his lips blue- all the blood thudding madly as it struggled for oxygen.

The tips of Mikey's fingers pried Patrick's jaw open, and before his eyes had even opened, the knife was pressing into the roof of his mouth.

Patrick sobbed again, eyes watering and silently pleading for some semblance of mercy. Mikey laughed again, but in a second, his face dropped blank and serious. "And if you ever do it again…"

The blade edge moved to the right corner of Patrick's mouth, pressing into the edge softly as Patrick tried to keep still. He didn't wanna accidentally cut _himself_. At this point, he just wanted to get out of this alley alive and not maimed- if possible.

 

Mikey inhaled, and Patrick half-expected some dark, gamey threat of 'I'll kill you', or 'I'll slit your throat', but instead, only innocuous words left Mikey's tongue. But they sent the biggest shiver down Patrick's spine, and they sent bile into his throat like a rocket.

 

 

"I'll bury you next to him."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick tumbled out of the alley directly onto his knees, clutching his lightly bleeding throat, mouth, and cheek all in turns as he struggled forwards.

Mikey's amused chuckles were still ringing out as the lanky boy leaned against the mouth of the alley, watching the redhead scramble to his feet, hands scrabbling to grab his bag as he tried to speed away as quickly as humanly possible.

 

"Nice talking to you, Patrick!"

 

The voice was so light, and so fucking friendly Patrick wanted to blow his fucking brains out, fuck- He held back a sob as he kept pacing forwards, shaky legs taking him towards the final destination of school as they trembled with every step.

  
Oh god, he wished he hadn't taken his brother's route, Jesus fucking Christ he was gonna punch Kevin too- fuck. Patrick inhaled, exhaled and shuddered, closing his eyes and letting the rhythm of his footsteps soothe him.

 

He held back strings of teary hiccups that had started rising through his throat, narrowing his eyes and furiously wiping his nose on his sleeve.

 

Fuck Mikey. Fuck him. Patrick was gonna ruin his fucking life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Patrick-"

 

"Shut up. We're skipping." Patrick didn't even spare his friends a longer glance before he'd turned on his heel. "Patrick- whoa whoa whoa," A pair of hands on his shoulders flipped him and forced him to face- Pete, god fucking damn-  
  
Pete could only gape as he dragged a thumb over the tiny slit on Patrick's cheekbone, head shaking and eyes wide. "Patrick- what the fuck-"

 

"It was Mikey."

 

Patrick could practically see the fires burning in his three friends as their gazes darkened, glances finding each other and exhales turning deep and shaky.  
Not quite having the heart to shove Pete away, Patrick stepped back and nodded curtly. He tried to stay composed. The keyword being 'tried'.

 

"I'm going to the police, and, I-I'd really really, I'd appreciate it if you- if you c-came with me-" Patrick's words cracked and broke further with every syllable.

 

Pete surged forwards in a second, eyes scanning over the tiny cuts that littered Patrick's face. His fingers carefully drifted over the hand print that was ensnaring his boyfriend's neck, and in an instant, his face curled into narrowed eyes, a wrinkled nose and a deep scowl.

 

"I'm gonna kill him."

 

Andy tried first, voice waning but a little warbled with concern. "Pete-"

 

"I'm gonna fucking-"

 

"Pete." Patrick's voice was sharp, his eyes were sharper, and Pete snapped back to sense in an instant. "We're going to the police. _Alright?_ "

 

 

 

 

 

 

None of them spoke as they paced towards the police station, although, Joe and Andy would often give Patrick concerned glances and small words of comfort; They were appreciated, despite the hard facade Patrick was insisting on playing.

 

Pete however, Pete just glared at the concrete.

 

The police station wasn't particularly huge, but it wasn't small either. Sat in the center of town, and unremarkable, the four stayed silent as they crossed the doors.

Patrick felt a little bad for dragging his friends away from school, they'd probably get in trouble, but- but he couldn't be alone right now. He just couldn't.

 

Their concerned gazes at his silence were comforting, but another half of Patrick reprimanded him for not explaining. But, god- the only person he wanted to speak to was a police officer-

 

"Aren't you supposed to be at school?"

 

Frank stared them down as the receptionist handed him a few folders, but he kept his eyes on the gaggle of boys, before his eyes moved over Patrick, stopping dead in their tracks.

He said nothing, and only raised an eyebrow, but it was enough to prompt a teary, verbal waterfall from Patrick.

 

"Mikey Way pulled a knife on me and he said he was gonna-"

 

"Whoa." Frank's eyes were slightly aflame, but he nodded and cleared his throat, nervously glancing around. He narrowed his eyes on Patrick, "I'll take a statement from you, but-" He raised his eyebrows at Pete, Joe, and Andy. "You three need to get back to school."

 

"But-"

"We're not-"

"But what about-"

 

"Go. To. School."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Bury him, next to..." Frank rubbed at his temple with a small squint, before leaning back into his chair with a sigh. He'd been reading this goddamn statement for hours, and it was still perplexing him.

Patrick had more or less recounted everything, and in perfect detail too, despite the occasional lagged shocked and terrified sobbing as his adrenaline faded.

It'd been a pretty cut and dry case, and a few police officers had been dispatched to fetch Mikey- and Ryan, for good measure.  
  
Frank was pretty sure he was in the building at this point, but he had no will to go see him. No, instead, Frank was entranced by the transcript words that stared at him from the page.

 

_'You look like him'_

 

_'He was skinnier, though. And, blonde. Nicer eyes, too.'_

 

Frank sighed, hands rubbing over his face as he just caught the start of the harrowing words that had left something odd in his chest.

 

_'I'll bury you next to him'_

 

Frank didn't know what the hell Mikey was talking about. Bury him next to who? Mikey hadn't killed anyone, he was just playing it up to threaten Patrick into silence...right?

 

Right?

 

"Oh shit." Frank's eyes widened softly as the gasped words left his mouth. After the- no, shit- _Before_ the rising, there'd been so many murder cases put on hold, dismissed on account of the fucking zombies, understandably.

There'd been so many statistics, people getting away with crimes, and-

 

Fuck. Fuck. Oh god-

 

"Frank?"

 

Frank almost jumped a meter in the air as he turned in his seat frantically, eyes uncharacteristically wide and words oddly stuttered.

The receptionist was by the door, and Gerard just behind her; His husband was bouncing on his heels, face plastered with stifled desperation as his gaze bored into Frank.

 

"Uh- Thanks, Jane."

  
The woman smiled politely and left, but not without a cautious look at Gerard- who was quiet, but fuming.  
The second the door was closed, Gerard furrowed his brow at him, staring in pure silence that made Frank's head swim. "Uh- what's wrong-"  
  
"Why was Mikey arrested?"

 

Half of Frank wanted to growl, to snarl, to tell Gerard every rotten thing about Mikey he could. _Your brother got arrested because he's a viscous bastard that made one kid feral, and held another at knife point._

The other half wanted to comfort his husband, who was obviously on the very edge of screaming or crying. Mikey was important to him, ridiculously so.

 

Frank, against his better judgement, tried to do both, in an odd, half-baked strategy.

 

He slipped away from his desk and towards Gerard, smile small and eyes reassuring. "He uh...he cut a kid. Pocketknife."

Gerard instantly shook his head, "Mikey wouldn't do that-"

 

"Gerard-"

 

"No." Gerard's stare was adamant, and his voice was even firmer. Frank could only sigh and snatch the files from the desk. He pushed them at Gerard, with a nod, "Read it." And left the room, trying his best not to slam the door.

 

He loved his husband, but Mikey was something else entirely.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Frank stared at Mikey in silence.

 

The boy was sat in the blank room, pale eyes dull and foot tapping against the floor in boredom. His gaze was fixed on the double glass, however, almost as though he knew Frank was there. It freaked him out a little, honestly.

Frank only sighed quietly and tried to push it to the back of his mind, rubbing a hand over his face and yawning into it. Fuck, he was tired. He'd give anything for a full weekend of sleep; Wrapped in warm covers with his warm husband, it sounded like Heaven right about now.

 

"Frank?"

 

Frank glanced to his side in an instant, finding Gerard gliding up beside him. The man's eyes were on Mikey, before they fell to his hands, then up towards Frank. "I uh...I left the files on y-your..." He sighed heavily, almost as though he'd been holding it back for ages. "Your desk."

 

Frank only nodded his thanks, eyes still on the boy behind the glass, but it wasn't long before Gerard's voice piped up again.

 

"Frank?"

 

Frank glanced at his husband, trying to keep his eyes soft, despite the stress that ringed around them. "Yeah?"

 

Gerard chewed on his lip for a moment, jaw shifting under his skin as he sighed and tore his eyes away from Mikey. "I think...I think I know who he was talking about."  


Holding back his surprise, Frank nodded gently, raising his brow a fraction. "Go on."

 

Something like regret crossed Gerard's face for a second, but he quickly shook his head and rocked on his heels, refusing to look at his brother on the other side of blinded glass. "He, had this friend, before everything uh…" The man shrugged with a sigh, "Well, whatever- I just, he matches, what he said to the Stump kid, and...I…"

 

"Couldn't withhold information?" Frank tried a tiny smile, trying to lighten the dark air around them.

 

Gerard rubbed his eyes, but ultimately nodded with a long sigh. "Yeah."

 

"What was his name?"

  
There was a tension in Gerard's shoulders as he spoke, but Frank could tell the words were truthful; Gerard wouldn't lie to him, after all. He never had, and he was pretty sure he wasn't about to start now.

 

"Mason Glover."

 

With a nod, Frank moved a hand to the older man's shoulder, but the minute Gerard melted into it, he decided to go for a full blown hug instead. He pressed a kiss to Gerard's hair, feeling him hold back shudders of what he assumed was nothing but guilt.

 

"Thank you." Frank rubbed his cheek against his husband's hair, "I know-"

 

"Don't." Gerard pressed his face into Frank's neck, hands trembling in his shirt.

  


  
"Just don't."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mason Glover.

 

Frank could see the resemblance between him and Patrick; Subtle but there, and it only made the pictures of the redhead's injures that much more eerie.

  
Glover's disappearance had been written off when the rising had started, the case was slammed shut out of panic on more pressing matters, but now that things had settled down once more, it could definitely be re-opened- as long as there was a strong enough lead. And now, Frank had that exact lead.

 

He knocked at the sheriff's door, the file in his hand chock full of things that linked enough miniscule details between Mikey, Patrick, Mason, and all topped off with a statement from Gerard. It'd been hard, and his husband had left the station in raw, aching silence, but if they solved a kid's murder, it'd be worth it.

 

"Come in."

 

Frank stepped inside, back straight and eyes sparking with confidence- while he desperately tried to suppress the picture of Gerard's devastated face.

Realizing your little brother, that you adored and cared for, had made a kid go feral, had cut another, and had maybe murdered one more...that couldn't have been easy.

 

Frank made a note to try and talk to him later.

 

Dave Trohman only raised an eyebrow; He looked _more_ exhausted than Frank felt, holy shit. "What do you need, Frank?"

 

The younger man only stepped over to his desk, passing him the file, and speaking in the most professional tone he could, drawing out his words and laying it all out clearly. "I have enough circumstantial evidence to convict Michael Way of-"

 

"Shit." Dave only looked exhausted as he read over the papers, and Frank could only give a long suffering sigh and nod. "Shit indeed, chief."

 

The room fell into silence for a few moments as Dave read over the papers, one hand idly rubbing at his temples, and the other flipping through the sheets. He gave odd and sharp inhales every now and then.

Frank assumed he wasn't too happy about the proximity Mikey had had to his son; And he understood, if _his_ child had been going to class with a murderer, he'd feel the same.

 

A few moments later, and Dave nodded wordlessly, eyes closed for a moment before he forced them open once again.

 

"Look for the body. If you find it, arrest him."

 

Frank nodded curtly, stomach writhing in guilt, chest bursting with pride, and head swimming with the devastation he'd seen on his husband's face.

 

 

"Yes sir."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Gerard?"

 

Gerard said nothing as he paced out of the bathroom and crawled into bed, wordlessly slipping under the covers and curling into them. Frank stared for a moment, debating on his course of action.

He shifted closer to his husband, trying a hand over his waist. He felt the older man tense, and Frank held back a groan. "Gerard, please," He threw the arm over his eyes. "Just talk to me."

 

The man said nothing, and Frank let his head tip back with a sigh.  
  
His jaw writhed under his skin, his fingers picked at the fabric of the comforter, and Frank knew he was in for a sleepless night.

Part of him couldn't help feeling he'd betrayed Gerard, he'd betrayed Mikey, he'd betrayed their family. On the other hand, just because Mikey was Gerard's brother, it didn't mean he was gonna get away with cutting kids up, or murdering them.

It was still alleged, and Frank knew he should be treating it as such, but-

 

Gerard shifted over to him.

 

His head thumped down onto Frank's chest, and an arm curled around his waist. Frank lay still, careful not to move or disturb him; He really didn't want to chase him away right now.

 

Slowly, Frank moved a hand to card through Gerard's short, dyed hair, and soon enough, he could see his husband's eyelids twitching in the dim dark, along with hearing his breathing deepen and calm.

Fuck, he loved Gerard too much; If he asked him to go free Mikey, to help him escape the state, to fund his fucking life for the next thirty years- Frank would've done it in a second.

 

But, while Gerard loved his brother, Frank knew he'd never ask for that. He was good, moral, and he understood the balance of crime and-

 

"He did it, Frank."

 

Frank said nothing. He only stared at the ceiling in blanked out shock, words stuck in his chest, and hand stilling in Gerard's hair.

The older man only sniffed and curled up closer, sighing shakily. Frank assumed he was crying; His shirt felt a little damp.

And then Gerard's voice came again.

 

 

"I know he did."

 

  
And Frank said nothing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"What are you thinking?"

 

Patrick's words were quiet and mumbled into Pete's chest, but the older boy only kept his glare forwards into the dim room, only lit up by Pete's bedside lamp.

His parents had no idea he was here, no, Patrick had snuck in through the window; His old trick that was working more and more recently.

He couldn't have slept alone that night, he needed company, and Pete had been more than happy to oblige.

Pete had also been kind enough to lend him clothes, and the only thing of Patrick's that had remained, was the stone around his neck. A stupid little trinket, no more than a stupid little joke from Pete when they were younger, but, despite it-

 

"I think you can guess."

 

The redhead huffed quietly, shifting to stare up at Pete. The dark-haired boy visibly scowled at the cut on his cheek, before running his thumb over the tiny gash at the edge of his mouth. "That motherfucker-"  
  
Patrick sighed and buried his face in Pete's neck, "Just go to sleep, huh?"

Pete held back a sigh, but his hands only took to curling around Patrick tightly as he kissed as his shoulder. "I love you."

 

Patrick smiled softly, dropping back laxly at Pete's side, curling their legs and hands together between them, all while gazing over each other. "Love you too."

The warmth, the silence, and steady comfort of Pete beside him coaxed sleep forwards quickly, and before Patrick knew it, he was on the edge of sleep and consciousness...before Pete's voice disrupted it all, letting him fade asleep with the firm words in his ears.

 

"If they don't deal with him, I will."

 

Patrick felt a kiss on his hand.

 

 

"I promise."

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, don't worry about what they are, just pick what you like the sound of.
> 
> Kyrkogrim or Myling?


	13. You And I Are Stuck Like Glue, And That's The God Damn Truth

 

Patrick could only yawn, cheek resting on his hand as he smiled lazily at his friends.

 

Joe and Andy looked significantly less tired than he felt, and once again, they- or, Joe, with Andy's assistance, were struggling through chemical formulae that made Patrick's brain hurt with a single glance.

 

"Look, it's not that hard, you just need a positive iro-"

 

Joe dropped his head into his forearms with a groan, only coaxing a deadpan stare from his boyfriend. Stubbornly, Joe held a hand up and gave an aborted nod into his arm. "Listen, everything is totally fine, it's- just stay calm, stay-"

 

"I _am_ calm."

 

"I'm taking to myself."

 

Andy gave a quiet, amused scoff, but Joe only leaned back with a sigh, hands stretching over the plastic-like tabletop.

 

"Hey guys."

 

Patrick glanced to his side to find Pete, face quickly splitting into a smile at the sight of Pete. Behind him, following at his heels like a slightly nervous and quiet puppy, was Brendon.

Somehow, Pete had found it in his heart to forgive the younger boy, and he'd, over time, swayed his friends into letting Brendon tag along during their school days.

Patrick wasn't sure what to make of Brendon; He seemed quieter than he'd expected. During the first few days, Patrick could help his occasional, dark glances. Patrick certainly hadn't forgotten that Brendon had been the one to steal Pete's medicine, to turn _his fucking boyfriend feral_.

Over time, and over many, _many_ , pleads from Pete, he'd...made an effort.

 

Pete almost bounced towards them, shrugging his rucksack away and taking a swift seat next to Patrick, Brendon shuffling in on his other side.

The redhead rubbed his his eye, yawning lightly and trying a smile at Pete. "You okay?" Pete rolled his shoulders and stretched a little, but quickly nodded, grin still bright and firm.

 

In an effort to be polite, Patrick shifted his gaze to Brendon and bounced an eyebrow.  
  
The younger boy blinked for a moment, but quickly smiled and nodded eagerly. "Yeah, fine thanks."

 

Patrick gave a small smile and nodded, before shifting his gaze back towards Joe and Andy- still struggling, still whining over chemistry problems.

As Patrick's fingers idly rubbed at his cheek, he winced and hissed a little at the stinging line there; The shallow cut on his cheek didn't hurt much anymore, but every now and then, it stung a little harsher than usual.

Pete's hand was on his knee in a second, hidden under the table and unnoticed by the others. Joe and Andy were well distracted with- at this point, passively aggressively squinting at the sheets, whilst Brendon somehow seamlessly blended into their snarky exchanges.

 

Pete gave a tiny, reassuring smile, and Patrick couldn't help but grin back, shaking his head and rubbing his hands over his face as he tried to hide the slight flush that had decided to ruin his life right now.

He heard a slight chuckle from Pete, and then, further annoyed words towards the poor, abused chemistry homework.

 

"Fuck this. Seriously, fuck it."

 

"Joe-"

 

"No- okay, look," Joe braced forwards on his forearms, sparing Andy, Pete and Brendon long, firm stares as he tried to win them over. "When am I ever gonna need to balance a formula? Seriously. Think about it."

 

Pete only chuckled quietly, shaking his head as Andy sighed and glared at his boyfriend.

 

"Joe."

 

"Yeah?"

 

"Do your fucking homework."

 

 

As Joe reluctantly scrawled his answers down, grumbling all the way, Patrick could help the aborted, stifled laughs he hid behind his hand. He glanced to his side, finding Pete and Brendon doing the exact same thing; Two pairs of brown eyes crinkled in silent laughter, along with two breathless grins.

Andy wasn't as amused however, eyes dull as he made sure Joe stuck to it.

 

It only took a few seconds before Joe sighed again, the complaining trying to explode once more.

 

"Fuck chemistry man-"

 

"Joe, I swear to God."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick had never been one for reading newspapers.

 

However, as he sat cross-legged on his bed, the newspaper he'd stolen from his dad in his hands, he could only read with wide eyes, a gaping mouth and the strongest conviction he'd ever felt.

 

_20-year-old PDS sufferer, Michael James Way, was arrested for the murder of 18-year-old Mason Glover yesterday. Way was prosecuted on charges of homicide after the body of Glover was discovered in the Battery Forest by local police officers._

_In addition to the homicide charges, Way was also charged with aggravated assault towards another 18-year-old that will go unnamed, and with Neurotriptyline theft, which caused another 20-year-old PDS sufferer (will go unnamed) to become feral for a short time._

_He was found guilty by a jury, and will serve ten years with no parole at the State Penitentiary in Eddyville, KY._

 

Patrick kept reading over the passage like it was a prayer, the words chanting through his head as he obsessively scanned the page.

 

Mikey had actually... _murdered_ , somebody?

 

Fuck, that made what had happened in alley so much fucking worse. Oh shit- god, he could've died, oh god. Patrick clenched his eyes shut, dropping the paper as though it had burnt him, before trailing his hands over his face with a sigh, doing his best to comfort himself.

 

It's okay. It'll be okay. He's gone. You're fine. Pete's fine. Everyone's fine.

 

Despite the writhing flames in his stomach, Patrick forced his eyes open. Gingerly, he retook the newspaper and flipped past the dull picture of Mikey's mugshot; Eyes pale, skin pale, he'd refused to cover himself even then.

 

It didn't take long before another name made his breath hitch.

 

_19-year-old student and PDS sufferer, Ryan Ross, is to be arrested on charges of Neurotriptyline theft. Ross worked with Michael Way, but claimed to have had no knowledge of the aggravated assault and homicide._

_He was found guilty of Neurotriptyline theft, but he was declared innocent of aiding and abetting Way. Ross will serve six months with parole Eastern Kentucky Correctional Complex, but may be allowed to leave earlier if he exhibits good behaviour and responds to therapy._

 

Patrick dropped the paper again, leaning back against the wall with a quiet sigh. That was it. They were free. And, by the time Ryan was released, they  would have graduated- they'd be in Chicago.

A slow smile spread on the redhead's face as he sighed contently, lungs releasing a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding in.

His phone buzzed from the bedside table, and with a tilt of his head, Patrick shuffled towards it and fished it up, quickly tapping the screen to life.

 

_Pete: did you see the newspaper_

 

Patrick smiled softly, eyes crinkling as he typed back quickly.

 

_Patrick: Yeah._

_Patrick: Looks like we're free, huh?_

 

_Pete: is ur mom home??_

 

Patrick squinted at the screen, almost convinced Pete could see it.

 

_Patrick: Why._

 

_Pete: i wanna come pick up my bf, that's y_

 

Patrick chuckled to himself quietly, shifting onto his back and squinting at his ceiling for a moment. Who was he kidding, he'd never refuse that offer.

 

_Patrick: She is, but meet me at the park, deal?_

 

_Pete: u got it captain_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Did you know penguins give their mates a rock?"

 

"Where do you get this stuff, Pete?"

 

Pete only grinned brightly, before quickly shrugging, "Animal Planet." The redhead sighed, "You do know half of that is just-"

 

"Isn't that weird though?"

 

Patrick stared at his friend. He wasn't sure why Pete had dragged him out of bed that night, had made him climb up a _hill_ , and had deprived him of gravely needed sleep. They had middle school tomorrow, and neither of them got enough sleep as it was. Patrick was totally clueless as to why-

 

"It's weird right?"

 

The ginger boy shook his head in a daze, before tilting it at his best friend.

There were plasters on his red grazed palms, the result of a harsh tumble he'd taken in soccer. Patrick shrugged awkwardly, high words stuttering out as he pinched at the loose strands on his pyjama pants _that were probably really dirty right now_ , thanks a lot Pete, thanks a lot. "I-I guess?"

 

Pete came up with the dumbest topics sometimes, and at this point, after three years of something akin to light torture, Patrick had learnt to deflect it _expertly_.

 

He sighed and gazed up at the sky, watching the twinkling stars with a soft smile on his face that had crept to light completely involuntarily.

Stars were pretty, sure that statement was kinda redundant at this point; It was a known fact, after all, but the tiny, white pinpricks in the sky always made him grin like an idiot.

 

A nudge in the ribs shook him away from them, and Patrick couldn't help the instantaneous glare that snapped onto his face.

 

Pete's face was plastered with a goofy grin as he grabbed Patrick's wrist, before pressing something into its palm before the younger boy had even had time to complain.

Patrick blinked as he glanced down, and he had to stop himself inhaling sharply at the rock that sat there. It was still caked in dirt and a few blades of grass, and judging from the dirt on Pete's fingers, it was obvious he'd dug it out of the ground at random.

 

"You're _my_ _penguin mate_ , Trick."

 

Patrick glowered at the dumb giggle that Pete gave, but the moment he looked away, he stuffed the stone into his pocket without a sound.

 

It was dumb. Pete was dumb. He was just playing a dumb joke.

 

 

But Patrick still kept the rock.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"This is dumb."

 

Pete spluttered into a laugh and nudged his boyfriend in the ribs softly. " _No_ _it's_ _not_."

The younger boy sighed, hands lacing into the grass as he leaned back on them, idly gazing up at the dark sky.

 

In order to, 'properly celebrate the occasion', as Pete had put it, the older boy had decided to hazard staying out at night, with the sole purpose of stargazing. While Patrick had complained during the entire walk to the park, that unfortunately sat on the top of a cliff, he was actually smiling...internally.

It was a familiar venture, to a familiar place, all while a familiar rock that, years ago, his sister had looped a piece of string into (but not without a teasing grin and implying nudges in the ribs) hung around his neck.  
Patrick wasn't one for jewellery, really, but that dumb little penguin rock Pete had given him was the only exception he made- or, would ever, make.

 

They paced towards the metal gates that looked dull now, but that in sunlight lit up in bright colours, designed to entice kids. As weird as that sounded.

Pete stepped forwards first, pushing the gate open before holding it for Patrick- who quickly trotted through after him.

 

The park didn't hold great memories for Pete- Well, that being said, it held some great childhood memories, but...but more recent, events, had tainted its innocence a little.

Despite the memories the swings and slides held, the park was the only way to get to that little hill that sat tucked behind an expanse of fence.

 

They hardly spoke a word until they were sat there once again, but the feelings of familiarity were enough to sow a soft smile onto Patrick's face.

 

Not long after though, Pete ruined the peace with a nudge to his ribs- just like he always did.

 

Patrick couldn't help the light glare as he raised an eyebrow at Pete. The other boy didn't seem deterred however, he only shuffled closer and dropped his head onto Patrick's shoulder.

Patrick smiled, as much as he tried to stifle it, it broke free, and Patrick found himself squirming into Pete, shifting around until his head was pressed to the crook of Pete's neck, eyes still finding the stars under Pete's chin.

The arm around his shoulders was cold- as it always was, but Patrick couldn't bring himself to care as Pete pecked his forehead.

 

"Patrick?"

 

"Uh huh?"

 

"...Do you remember the penguin rock? When you were like, twelve?"

 

Patrick felt himself freeze, tensing up in Pete's arms and making the older boy furrow his brow down at him. "Uh...you okay?"

 

Shit, Pete wasn't allowed to have that good a memory.

 

Jesus- Patrick smiled nervously and shrugged, "Uh, yeah, I'm fine."

Pete hummed and nodded, before propping his chin on Patrick's hair. He was silent as he gazed upwards, and while Patrick tried to follow suit, the rock was burning around his neck.

 

"And if I remember correctly, you were _fourteen_." Patrick tried a grin up at Pete, eyes crinkled and full of mirth. "You _weirdo_."

 

Pete only spluttered into a laugh, but it was quickly muffled by a drawn out peck from Patrick that made him exhale softly.

 

Okay. Patrick, had always felt a little...dumb, for keeping that dumb rock that had obviously been a joke, but-

 

Shit, Pete knew just how to press his buttons.

 

And how to be disgustingly adorable.

 

Goddammit.

 

Patrick was screwed.

 

 

 

 

"Patrick?"

 

"Hm?"

 

"We're going to Chicago."

 

Pete's voice was low and firm, and Patrick's face blossomed into a grin in an instant. They'd always talked about it, but it had always been light, jokey, in a way. But hearing Pete say it so seriously, well, even if it didn't happen-

 

"We're gonna do it."

 

Pete could read his mind, Patrick was sure of it.

The older boy shifted to stare his boyfriend in the eyes, keeping his gaze light as he carded a hand through his hair. Patrick grinned, not being able to really help himself anymore, before he pressed forwards into Pete. He slid his mouth into Pete's, and he could only smile at the happy sigh Pete gave.

They kept it chaste, despite the obviously tighter-than-usual grips Pete fastened to his hair and waist. The redhead tugged away after a moment too long, nuzzling back into Pete's neck with a slight chuckle. "Stop being horny, we're stargazing."

Pete only laughed in response, and Patrick's grin broadened as he practically saw the crinkled eye corners in his head.

God, he loved Pete. He loved him so much. He wished he'd gotten his head straight earlier, he wished they hadn't wasted so much time.

 

"I wish that too."

 

Patrick froze, face falling into a frozen grimace. "...Did I say that out loud?"

 

"Yep."

Pete's words came paired with a laugh, and Patrick couldn't hold back his own, breathless, wheezed, and muffled in Pete's shoulder.

 

 

 

 

That was another perk of living in a tiny, rural town. No light pollution meant the best stars Patrick had ever seen.

Smatterings of white glowing dots all blended together there were so many of them. Some were bigger, some were tinted blue- there were even a few stained red, and every now and then, one of them would point at a suspiciously moving star and call it out for what it really was-

 

"Plane."

 

Patrick huffed into Pete's shoulder. By the seventh time, it had gotten a bit redundant, but Pete seemed so proud of himself for pinpointing it, that he decided to nod and hum with interest.

Pete had been explaining that the Big Dipper actually looked more like a dog's face if you _just_ tilted your head well enough, when a loud yawn escaped Patrick, bubbling through his throat and catching him completely off guard.

 

When Patrick's eyes reopened, watery and dull from the yawn, he only saw Pete's sheepish smile. "Sorry Trick, I just kinda…" He shrugged lightly, jumping to his feet and offering a hand to the redhead. "Forget you actually need sleep."

Patrick nodded as he yawned again, taking the hand and rocking to his feet. "Yeah, sorry about that."

Pete only chuckled and shook his head as he linked his hand with Patrick's, leading his sleepy boyfriend out of the park and down the hill- that was steeper on the way down than on the up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick dragged Pete towards him, hands curled into his sweater as he pressed their mouths together, tilting his head and rocking towards him with a sigh. Pete obliged, as he always did, smiling softly and pressing softer, chaster and much sweeter kisses to his lips than what Patrick was trying.

"I love you." Patrick gasped into Pete's mouth, but the dark-haired boy could only hum and smile in response, far too distracted to formulate a single word.

They tugged away from each other after a few moments, left wide-eyed and spit-slicked as they stared softly at each other, almost forgetting the world around them was dark, and very decidedly, not safe for Pete.

Patrick's smile flickered as the realisation set alarm bells off in his head, but he only pressed another peck to Pete's mouth before stepping backwards towards the front door of his house, hoping it would urge Pete away to his own.

 

"Get home safe."

 

Pete nodded with his perpetual bright grin, giving Patrick a mock salute.

The redhead only huffed in amusement, smile broad and eyes squinted as he crept into his house, leaving Pete in the night behind him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Turns out, sneaking back in was harder than sneaking out.  
  
Patrick grimaced at every floorboard that creaked under his soles, he cringed at every breath he gave that was a little too loud- but in the end, it was all for nothing, and his mom stormed out of her bedroom with a face like thunder.

 

"Patrick Martin-"

 

Patrick hated having such a long name at times like these.

 

He just wanted to go to bed, goddam-

 

"Where have you been?"

 

Patrick only yawned again, rubbing at his eyes and letting his exhausted logic take the reigns. "If you lemme go to bed I'll jus- I'll tell you tomorrow, night mom love you."  
  
Without another word, Patrick stumbled past him mom with another yawn, before slumping into bed- not too bothered about the slight grass stains on his jeans. Or, indeed, not caring that he was wearing jeans at all.

 

_Freaky_. Pete was having a bad effect on him.

 

Patrick only managed to kick off his shoes before he was half-asleep, breathing softly and hardly hearing his mom's mutters as she retreated to her bedroom once again.

The redhead yawned softly, and, in a tiny, comfort-seeking move, his hand reached up to curl around the small rock that sat on a string, hidden inside the collar of his sweater.

He rubbed a cheek into his pillow, finally fading asleep with a blanking mind, and the feel of the stone in his hand.  
  
Fuck, he couldn't remember being this happy. This satisfied. Even back when Pete was alive…even back then- he'd never been as ecstatic and, _joyful_ as he was now.

They had so much ahead of them- all four of them; Chicago, an apartment- and hell, maybe even an album.  
And Pete and Patrick, they'd be safe in a city.

They'd be safe in Chicago. Pete could stay out as long as wanted to without a threat in the world. They could- god, they had so much ahead of them, and Patrick couldn't wait to watch it all unfold.

 

All with Pete. All with him.

 

 

And all with that dumb rock around his neck.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huldra or Bäckahästen?


	14. Golden Hour

 

Pete awoke to the distant clatters of plates downstairs, muffled by distance and his door.

 

He rubbed at his eyes with a yawn and pulled himself out of bed as he'd done so many times before. The old-new routine was practically embedded in his DNA at this point; Get up, go shower, cover skin, put in contacts, get dressed- and after all that, Pete would finally be cleared to leave the house.

His mom and dad couldn't really force him into breakfast anymore; The lack of a working digestive system had rendered it pointless- and not fun, as eating anything would result in a good five hours throwing it back up not more than ten minutes later.

 

Pete had learnt that the hard way.

 

He shuddered at the memory as he pushed out of the door, sighing contently and quietly at the hazy morning. The light was tinted a little dimmer than usual, but it gave everything an odd, almost surreal glow; Pete was too distracted by his thoughts to really notice it, however, as he was much too busy wondering about what they'd spend the weekend doing.

 

Another weekend, another two days of freedom, and another two days closer to taking off to Chicago. The four- or, well, the five, counting Brendon- who had, after a lot of effort from all parties, managed to blend in better, always spent those days together.

Whether it was going to town and just loitering around until they got chased away from stores, or whether it was hanging out at somebody's house and binging on everything from music, to films, to junk food- Pete not partaking, having learnt his lesson, they spent those days together more often than not.

The day before, they'd agreed to meet up in the center of town, at this old memorial that was a little too cracked and unkempt at this point. And of course, since Pete was a sappy dude, he'd decided to go wait for Patrick so they could walk there together.

Sure, it was a little dumb, but Pete needed at least five minutes of unfiltered time with Patrick every day, and judging by the grin Patrick would give him every time, he'd assume Patrick was stuck in a similar frame of mind.

 

His footfalls against the sidewalk soothed him a little as his eyes tried drooping.

It was odd, he didn't need sleep but fuck, Pete felt constantly tired; Maybe it was some placebo effect playing on his mind, trying to convince him that he _did_ in fact need sleep, and that, _no_ , he wasn't invulnerable to it. God, his mind was an asshole.

Pete huffed sharply when one of his footsteps landed just a little wrong, leg twitching clumsily in a numbly painful move. It was comforting that there were those little aches and pains sometimes; Like all those times he accidentally jabbed his funny bone into the edge of a table- now that shit _hurt_ , he didn't give a fuck what scientists said.

Being careful with his footfalls, Pete glanced up at the road ahead of him. The sky was still blazing orange as the sun rose, chasing away the inky night that had invaded its turf. It was like the air had been set on fire, as though light was casting over everything and everyone in canary yellow that would've made his eyes sting almost three years ago.

 

Patrick didn't live too far away, but it wasn't _that_ close either.

 

Back in middle school, when Pete's legs had been even shorter than they were now- yeah, _crazy_ , it would always take him what felt like years to arrive. But, when he did finally get there, when he finally knocked on the door like a normal person, or climbed up to Patrick's window like an insane one, the eventual soft smile Patrick would give him was always worth it.

 

Pete rolled his shoulders with a breathy sigh, smiling as he turned to round the corner towards the rows of houses where Patrick's sat; Unassuming and picturesque as a small town house could be, but housing a musical genius...unbeknownst to like, _everyone_ yet, but Pete knew it was true.

 

Since his stern promise of Chicago, and since the others had really taken to the idea- even Brendon, who preferred to stay home but insisted on receiving postcards every now and then, Pete had been giddy with an unbearable excitement. Unbearable because it felt so far away, but so amazing because it was _coming_.

 

Every time he should've been doing homework, he'd find himself daydreaming of what would be their life in a few months. An apartment, perfectly shitty in every way; Tattered wallpaper, water stains, maybe even the occasional mouse or cockroach- but that's what would make it perfect.

The little imperfections that added up to an ideal; The greasy pizza boxes, the instruments left laying around, the stack of dishes that would keep growing until it was physically impossible to stack anymore, and then some unlucky soul would have to clean it up.

Actually living with his best friends in their awful shoe-box apartment was a dream to him, and sure, if he told anybody else he'd probably get some odd looks. Indeed, who the fuck actually dreamed of a rat-infested home shared with three other people?

 

But what made Pete's heart flutter even harder, was the thought of _nighttime_.

 

Sure, cities were dangerous- Chicago was really no exception, but, for the first time in years, Pete could stay out at night safely.

He could actually just sit and watch stars without rushing home after a mere half hour, he could actually stare at the city lights and billboards that were eyesores to some, but just bright beacons to him. And sure, light pollution was a thing, but Pete would find a way to stare at stars anyway.

Maybe he'd bust a lock somewhere, illegally trespass onto a roof- yeah, Pete was the type to do that. He smiled to himself; He just might.

 

Pete glanced up again, eyes wide with the intent of finding the sun, but instead, finding...police cars.

 

Huh, that was...weird. Pete ignored the writhing in his stomach, stubbornly writing it off as some dumb side effect that made him paranoid, before soldiering forwards with his brow a little lower than usual.

They were probably here for some elderly person with heart palpitations, or maybe it was some kid who had fallen down the stairs, something dumb and trivial like that.

 

But there...there wasn't an ambulance.

 

Okay, maybe not a kid or an old guy then, maybe- maybe it was some teenager being brought home after getting into a fight or something; Yeah, police did that a lot, right? Probably some dumb kid with a busted lip getting shoved back home to scolding parents, that was it.

 

But- there- there were a lot, of police cars; Two too many for something like, bringing a kid home.

 

Pete swallowed his worries kept on forwards, footsteps hard and stubborn as he approached Patrick's driveway.

He stuttered to a stop for a mere moment and glanced over at his side, eyes freezing over at the sight of a police car. It was a little too close to Patrick's house for comfort, but Pete wrote it off with a shiver down his spine, narrowing his gaze back at the house and pressing forwards.

 

Pete stepped up to the front door with a lump in his throat, but once again, fighting it away, he quickly knocked on the door and distracted himself by glancing around.

The paint on the windowsill was chipped, there was a crack on the step- it'd been there for a while though, Pete remembered it from back when he, Joe, and Andy would come and pick Patrick up after middle school.

There were loose strings in his pockets, he should cut them later; Find some scissors, turn them inside out, it wouldn't be too hard to-

 

The door opened, and Pete's stomach twisted when he saw Patrick's dad.

 

Patrick's mom and dad were still on good terms, even after the divorce stuff, and even though his dad could often be found at their old house...it was too early.

Afternoon coffee was one thing, breakfast was another, and Pete couldn't stop his hands shaking as he shoved them into his pockets.

 

His lips twitched into a nervous yet attempted polite smile, all hiding the swirling in his chest. "Uh- h-hi, Mr. Stump, is uh...is Patrick, home?"

 

Patrick's dad froze, and Pete could hardly stand his silence.

 

It was burning him alive, fuck- why was he- Jesus, it was a simple fucking question. He hadn't asked some hard bullshit about rocket science, it was just-

 

Pete noticed Patrick's dad's hand was white around the knuckles and shaking, holding the door wide open as he seemed at a loss for a stutter.

And then, the last person Pete wanted to see right now rounded the door, hand on Patrick's dad's shoulder as he gave him a reassuring smile and let him retreat back into the house without a word.

 

Frank. Frank, motherfucking, Iero. Pete tried to calm himself down; Sure, okay- Frank had helped them innumerably, he hadn't written them off, he hadn't betrayed them for his brother-in-law- he'd been- and was, a good guy.

 

But he was a cop.

 

And he was at Patrick's house.

 

Patrick would never do anything illegal, so the only reason _a fucking cop would be at his house_ -

 

"You uh…" Frank stepped out and closed the door behind him, glancing over his shoulder for only a second. He turned back to Pete, eyes firm yet miserable, and fuck, it made the ghost of a heartbeat rage like a jackhammer in Pete's pulse points.

 

Frank exhaled through his nose sharply, before raising his chin at Pete. "There's no easy way to say this, so I'm just gonna say it."

 

Pete wanted to run away, right at that moment. Almost as though if he didn't hear what Frank had to say, the no doubt horrible possibility wouldn't be real.

Something kept his soles tethered to hell, however, and Pete could only stare with wide eyes and a loose jaw as Frank put a fatherly hand on his shoulder.

 

"Patrick is- Patrick has-" Frank sighed for a moment, eyes closing for a second as though he was trying to sort his words out before they left his mouth. With a curt nod, he glanced back up with a firm stare.

 

"There was a car accident, and he- he didn't make it."

 

Pete said nothing. He only kept staring.

Frank blinked in surprise, he'd no doubt been expecting a sob or a scream, but- no, Pete stayed silent, face blank and eyes unreadable- duller than ever before.

 

Shaking his head, Frank exhaled again and tried a few more words, if anything, driven to speak by the sound of silence.

 

"He uh- there was a, car accident, and uh, he- he was crossing the road, and-"

 

Frank gulped a little at the prolonged silence, Pete still refused to make a sound. With an attempt to cut it short, Frank dropped his hand and reached into his pocket, before pulling out a fist and pushing something at Pete.

The younger boy's eyes dropped to the trinket in his hand. The rock. The rock he'd given Patrick back- Pete couldn't make a noise, his features refused to show anything but blankness, and he only glanced back upwards when Frank's voice chimed out again.

 

"It was…he wasn't in pain for- for _long_ , it was...relatively, quick."

 

Pete could only stare as Frank cleared his throat and nodded, retreating back into the house and leaving Pete on the bricks just below the doorstep, hands lazily gripping at the rock, tethered to the string his palm.

 

He stared at the front door for what felt like five minutes, but judging by how far the sun had moved, it could've been five hours. The first sound Pete made was a lagged, confused whine, almost as though his reactions had been delayed by an entire timezone.

 

One foot sailed out behind him, and with a swiftness he wasn't sure how he was managing, Pete turned on his heel and walked home, face blank the whole way.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pete had never been to a funeral before.

 

It was odd, he supposed, but his family was pretty resilient in dying- yeah, he'd been the first, in fact; Everyone from his grandparents, to distant aunts and uncles, were all still alive and kicking, and so it followed, that Pete had never been to a funeral before.

 

The only funeral he probably would've been invited to, but had missed on account of being at 'correction', was Lauren's.

 

But now, he- and his family, had all been firmly invited to Patrick's.

 

It was only a week later. Patrick's parents had worked quickly, not wanting to leave their son rotting in the morgue for too long, he supposed. Pete understood, his parents hadn't waited around to put him in the ground either. And now that he thought about it, he was _really_ glad his parents hadn't decided to cremate him.

 

As Pete sat on the edge of his bed, waiting for the telltale knock on the door that would tell him it was time to go, Pete stared the rock in his hands.

 

It was small, no bigger than a coin, but definitely smoother than one. Patrick had cleaned off the dirt and grass years ago, it was perfectly clean now. It was a little battered, a chunk was chipped away. Pete idly swiped a thumb over it, dull eyes staring down at the pebble.

It'd hurt his fingers to dig it up from the ground. Indeed, it'd been hard to even fine a goddamn stone in the pristine and safe park grass. He'd still found one, however, it'd been too important not to-

 

The knock was soft, but there.

 

Pete shoved the stone into his pocket and stood, pacing over to the door nonchalantly, before opening it to reveal his dad.

 

There was something nervous about him. There had been something nervous about him _all week_ , now that he thought about it.

 

Something shifty and jittery in his mannerisms, his eyes; He'd been clumsier than normal, more distracted, and Pete found it odd. His dad was usually so composed it hurt, but, he wasn't now. Pete wasn't sure what had caused it, he doubted it was Patrick's death; He'd know him for a long time, but it-

 

"Ready?"

 

Pete nodded, but held back a shrug. Why wouldn't he be? He was dressed, right? All you really needed to be ready for a funeral was a suit. Or a dress, if you were a girl.

Pete barely took any notice of his dad's sad but reassuring smiles, he was too focused on twirling the rock around in his fingers where it lay in his pocket.

 

The walk to the graveyard was a little longer than usual, as the paces were a little slower than he'd walk alone, but it would've been weird of them to drive, seeing as it was so close.

 

 

 

 

When they _did_ finally arrive, however, Pete only raised an eyebrow at the lack of barbed wire. He hadn't noticed anyone removing it, but it _had_ been close to a year since the whole zombie fiasco, he supposed.

 

There was a sizeable group of people already, all dressed in black and loosely hanging around the new hole in the earth that- along with four others, sat under the shade of a tree.

 

They weren't late, thankfully, some people were still pouring in, more black suits and dresses trickling into the already huge ocean.

 

There were the usual people Pete had expected. The family- close _and_ extended. Pete knew Patrick would've hated that. He always complained about family reunions and Christmastime for that exact reason; Too many people that didn't know him, pretending as though they did because they shared some vague, quickly fading branch in the family tree.

 

His _close_ family, however, stood out from the multitudes of people who didn't look like Patrick at all. Familiar strands, familiar eyes, and all looking as though they'd been slapped and kicked in the face a million times as they stood closest to the grave.

 

Kevin and Megan were back from their colleges, they'd probably taken leave from school to go to their little brother's funeral, to support their parents. And honestly, it really looked like Mr. and Mrs. Stump desperately needed it.

Despite the divorce, the way they clung to each other was a clear beacon of desperation. Patrick's mom's eyes were red- so were his dad's, and so were his sibling's, but there was no real crying taking place.

 

Pete assumed they'd cried it out already.

 

His eyes drifted a little more to the side, and he quickly made out Joe and Andy- along with their own close families.

 

Their eyes were red too, but they were hiding it a little better. The two stood off in a corner, trying to keep away from the crowd.

Pete wondered if he should try and slip away towards them, or if he should leave them be and just stick to his family.

His parents seemed to have made the decision for him, however, and they finally decided on keeping him close with subtle tugs to the arm that went unnoticed by everyone else.

 

The rest of said crowd were all kinds of people, from friends of his parents and of 'the family', along with a few church goers that had decided it was appropriate to show up to a kid they'd never spoken to's funeral.

 

Whatever. It didn't bother Pete anymore. Sure, Patrick might be mad if he saw it, but he couldn't anymore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The actual service went by in a blur, Pete hardly paid attention to any of it.

Obituaries, condolences, entire speeches from people who'd only ever said 'Good morning' to Patrick talking about what a good, well-behaved boy he'd been, and how much of a tragedy this was.

 

It all blurred together, and by the time Patrick's coffin had been plunged a few meters into the earth, Pete hadn't been any more conscious.

 

Pete knew Patrick would've hated this entire thing; He would probably be tugging at his tie with annoyed sighs, glancing around at people with an awkward grimace, and just being a plain, stereotypical pretty wallflower.

Pete understood, and that's why when the whole black-clad crowd started moving towards the church, he excused himself without a word.

 

His parents tried a few whispered calls after him, but as soon as he was out of an earshot, they refrained from shouting after him; Shouting at a funeral wasn't appropriate, after all.

That little detail let him get away from the graveyard that sat on the hill, and before Pete knew it, the stone crosses, marble angles, and grass had melted away into suburban houses, streetlights, and concrete.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He was back home in a second, but as the handle of the front door refused to give, he groaned loudly and let his forehead thunk against the wood.

 

He still didn't have a fucking house key.

 

Since he wasn't too ecstatic about waiting around for Lauren to show up and save him from temporary homelessness, Pete left the doorstep and edged back around the house until his bedroom window was in view.

 

It wasn't that tricky to climb up, he could see how many of his friends had managed it over the years.

 

It was a case of leaning up on your toes until your fingertips grazed the first floor's jutting roof, and from there, it was a case of pulling yourself up, leaving a relatively easy climb up to the window.

 

Thankfully, Pete hadn't stranded himself on the roof, and the window opened with ease.

 

He slipped inside, sighing in relief as he met the soft, dim air of his room, and instantly peeled off the suit, simultaneously tugging his pyjamas on and falling into bed with a sigh.

 

He knew it was still way too early for bed, but who really gave a shit at this point?

 

Pete let his eyes fall shut, he let his muscles still, he tried to coax sleep to-

 

Shit, the-

 

Pete scrambled out of bed with a panic, eyes searching and locking onto the crumpled suit that lay on the ground. He paced towards the pants, snatching them and quickly rooting around in the pocket, before-

 

He sighed heavily, relieved by the cold weight of the rock in his hand.

 

With a dull look taking him over again, Pete dropped the pants and shuffled back into bed, turning to face away from the window.

The light still attacked him under his eyelids, so with another deep sigh, Pete tugged the covers over his head and tangled his legs in them, bringing them up to his chest as he let his spine curl. Pete shut his eyes and tried to fall asleep, but, as the minutes passed, it only eluded him more and more.

 

Pete sniffed, a small grunt escaping his throat as he writhed around.

 

He turned onto his front, pressing the side of his face into the pillow and inhaling and exhaling deeply, before-

 

It smelt weird.

 

Pete furrowed his brow and leaned up on his forearms, staring at his pillow suspiciously. He ducked his head and flipped over once more, burying his face in his covers instead of-

 

A surprised, stifled yelp left his throat as his head shot up, eyes wide and brow knitted at the same, weird scent that clung to the covers.

It wasn't bad, wasn't particularly reminiscent of anything strong. He couldn't pinpoint it, but it put a picture in his head; A picture of a messy room, a clumsy attempt at aftershave, two days witho-

 

...And then, there was that tiny, indistinguishable thing that made it...

 

Patrick.

 

Pete froze, jaw wide, eyes wider, and stilled blood freezing over.

It was Patrick. It was that night after Battery hill, it was that night Mikey had cut him, it was- it was every fucking sleepover they'd had over the years, it was-

 

Pete sobbed, something violent and desperate jolting through him like an electric shock.

 

More came, attacking his throat, his chest, his tongue- all hitting him like lightning bolts as he choked on the sounds, struggling to move apart from the aborted jerks the sobs would send through him.

Pete's right hand desperately gripped at the rock there, fingers curled around it and biting into his own palm like daggers. His brain felt numb, like he was going catatonic, like he was in shock.

Pete was trembling all over, and through the flurries of desperate, ugly sobs that ripped through him, he only managed to bring his knees to his chest, and pull his covers tight.

 

He couldn't move, he couldn't think, he couldn't breathe- but shit, that was already a given, but-

 

Pete's mouth was parted in shocked gasps, as though someone was either kicking him in the lungs or delivering earth-shattering news every second.

Everything he'd stifled destroyed him at once, leaving him a shaking, silent mess under his covers as he did nothing but gasp quietly into his pillow, dry eyes wide and _aching_ with the want for tears.

 

 

 

 

It felt like hours by the time his throat was dry, but despite the soft cries subsiding, Pete had been left wide eyed like a deer caught in the headlights. His head was on his pillow as he stared forwards into nothing, mouth parted just enough to let a devastated, rasped whine leave his throat.

His limbs were loose, and he was freezing, trembling under the covers like a fucking newborn lamb or something, but as much as he willed himself to go grab another sweater, Pete couldn't move.

 

There was a soft knock on his door, but Pete couldn't say anything. All he could find the strength to do was grip the rock in his hand.

 

Another knock, a little louder, a little stronger, but yet again, Pete did nothing.

 

There was a pause, a moment of perfect silence, before it was all shattered again.

 

"Pete?"

 

It was his dad. Pete would be lying if he said he wanted to go open the door, but he couldn't- physically couldn't, so he had his own, perfect excuse.

 

"Pete? Are you there?"

 

His dad's voice was a little louder that time, but as Pete said nothing once again, he heard a shaky sigh on the other side of the door, followed by more knocking and more calls of his name that were trying to stay composed.

 

 

Minutes melted by, and all the sounds had blurred into one by the time his dad burst through the door, eyes wide and panicky, and knuckles white and shaking.

 

The moment his gaze found Pete, hidden under his covers, he gave a long, pained sigh.

 

Pete couldn't move or protest when his dad pulled the comforter back, albeit, carefully, as though he wasn't trying to spook his son. Pete felt a little like his dad was treating him like a wild animal; Like some, jittery, nervous fox that would freak out and try jump out the window at the first wrong sound or move...Shit, that wasn't too far off, actually.

 

He tried a shaky smile at Pete- who could only stare back helplessly.

 

The man's light eyes cleared in a moment, and with a nod and without a word, he sat down on the edge of the bed, shifting so that he could keep an eye on the boy.

His gaze drifted over the balled up hand, but he said nothing about it, and instead, let his voice fall quiet.

 

"I felt that too once, y'know."

 

Pete's brow twitched as he tried to lower it, his features trying to react to the previously unheard tone with a knitted brow. His dad only exhaled quietly and moved a hand to his head, carding over it, not unlike he'd done when Pete was a baby up to when he was a toddler.

His dad nodded softly, eyes falling to the bedside table and glazing over lightly. "Two years, eleven months, and twenty days ago, now." A sound choked in Pete's throat as raw guilt ravaged what was left of him, but as his dad smiled shakily and softly, Pete stilled.

 

"I couldn't deal with the guilt. Oh god Pete, when I found you in that park, I just thought-" His words sounded more collected now, but Pete assumed time dulled wounds, even if it didn't heal them. That being said, Pete felt like he was never going to move again.

"I thought you were okay. Maybe a little down, maybe- maybe you'd had a shitty day at school, maybe you'd argued with Joe, or- maybe some teacher had been a dick." His dad huffed in amusement, and a small sound of a similar nature left Pete- only, a lot less noticeable.

 

"I walked you home, thought you...thought you seemed a little tired, but well, I know- I knew, you- well, you always had trouble sleeping, even since you were a baby. You kept your mom and I up entire nights." The words came with a quiet, reminiscent laugh, and Pete's lips twitched upwards for a moment. "Well, it was late and I, well, I assumed you just needed to sleep it off."

 

Pete knew where this story was going.

 

He'd been the focal point of it, anyway, but hearing it from his dad...it, it seeded and flourished a kind of guilt Pete had never felt before. It was so strong- it felt like it was collapsing every atom from his stomach to his collarbones, as though-

 

"And then, in the morning, I came and knocked at your door." His dad's voice was still composed, but it would waver every now and then. It made Pete wonder if his dad was over it; Probably not, but then again, losing a firstborn child...Pete assumed that couldn't be easy to just _get over_.

 

"And you didn't answer. And, I tried again, but-" The tone was amicable, as though he was recounting the story to a friend, rather than to his son, who had caused the entire thing. His dad smiled softly, eyes catching in the light and exposing just how teary they were.

 

"You were tiny, y'know that? You were born a little early, only a few weeks, but- but, god- I was, I was just panicking the entire time."

 

His smile broadened as his eyes glazed in memory, and while the topic of...Pete's mistake had been put behind them, the dark-haired boy still felt the sinkhole swirling in his stomach.

"Your mom was calm though, she was always smarter than I was." His words came with a tiny huff, that Pete found himself mimicking quietly. "And then you fell asleep, just after- and, the doctor woke you up when he was passing you over, and- and you _screamed_ the place down."

 

Pete's smile was tiny, but there, and for what felt like the first time in hours, he let his eyelids droop a little, sparing his wide eyes from getting any drier.

 

"You kept being loud, after that. Kept us up all night- your mom and I took turns sleeping, and keeping you quiet. Or, well, _trying_ _to_ , anyway." Pete huffed and leaned into his dad's hand, that was still carding his hair gently.

"The neighbours would come knock on the door at 3am, they'd- they'd yell, and complain, and, tell us to muzzle you or whatever." His dad smiled again, "Your mom would just- she'd get so protective, every single time."

Pete's smile grew a little; His mom had always been that way. Any time something, or, someone threatened one of her kids, she'd be there and ready to fight it in a second. He'd always appreciated that, he made a note to tell her.

 

" _A lot_ of slammed doors, I'm telling you."

 

A small noise escaped Pete's throat, something between amusement and apology, but something that was only met with a reassuring card.

 

"Well, I uh- I got off topic, there, but-" Pete chuckled quietly, and the relieved beam it brought to his dad's face made him sigh quietly.

 

"I- After, after everything, happened, I- I couldn't get out of bed." Pete stilled, face falling a little as the sinkhole returned. "I just- I physically, just- I couldn't move. And I, well, Andrew and Hillary were still so young, and- and your mom, it was- it was just as hard on her."

Pete chewed at the inside of his cheek, sniffing quietly and shifting back to catch and urge his dad's hand again, seeing as it had stilled a little.

"There were days that we just...It'd, it'd get to 7pm, and- and we'd still be in bed. We'd just, stare at each other- we wouldn't speak, or anything, but-"

 

Pete had never wanted to hear this, but at the same time, it was all he'd ever wanted to hear.

 

As contradictory as that was, it was true. He'd never wanted to deal with the fallout, he'd never wanted to hear what he'd done to his mom and dad- and, by extension, to his brother and sister.

But all he'd wanted to hear was what had happened. He'd wanted to be yelled at, to be blamed.

 

Patrick had been the first person to give him that.

 

Although, it hadn't been as calm as this encounter was.

 

Pete appreciated it. He really couldn't deal with getting punched right now.

 

"Eventually, your- your mom, or I, we'd, we'd _force_ ourselves up. For Andrew, and Hillary. They'd be, watching TV, or, doing homework, or- they'd be starving, too, and, we'd always feel awful, like the worst parents in the whole world, but-"

 

There was a quiet exhale, but Pete could hear the stifled sigh behind it. He knew his dad too well to _not_ notice it.

 

"Patricia and David kept it together really well."

 

Pete's eyes screwed shut, and his dad's shaky, empathetic sigh was a little louder. "We...we managed to, to keep quiet too, but, well, things are never that calm behind closed doors, believe me."

Pete exhaled sharply, head bowing a little as he tried to hide himself with boneless limbs, but his dad only stilled.

 

"Pete?"

 

It took a few tries, and a few, injured grunts before Pete actually managed a low, rasped word. "Yeah?"

His dad froze at the word for a second, but a relieved exhale overtook it in an instant, all before his words come slow, and careful, and as _wise_ as anything.

 

"I _know_ it hurts-"

 

Pete sobbed, loud and harsh and painful- and before he knew it he was wailing into his dad's shoulder.

 

He felt like a little kid again. It felt like that time when he was seven; He'd fallen off his skateboard and had come home with a grazed everything and a sniffle.

His dad hugged him close, arms solid and the only comfort Pete had as he let go, finally letting himself choke sobs and groan wails without reserve for how loud or ugly they were.

"D-Dad- Oh god- I can't- I _can't_ -" Pete's voice was completely broken as he choked on the words, lungs giving a harsh cough he didn't need as his dad only pressed a hand to the back of his head, keeping him steady and grounded.

Pete sniffled for a second, exhaling shakily in relief at the few seconds of peace before the keens would no doubt attack him again. His dad exhaled curtly but silently, before giving a nod Pete could feel against his ear.

 

"You _can_."

 

That was all Pete needed to sob again, face burying into his dad's shoulder as he choked on the sounds. He was so tired, and it hurt so much to cry; His throat begged him for a rest, his vocal chords rasped and strained, and worst of all, it felt like his actual, physical heart was tearing in two.

 

 

By the time the keens and cries had turned into jerky, frustrated growls and shattered, furious whines, Pete felt so exhausted he could hardly remember his own name. As he slowly got quieter, sounds fading into pathetic whimpers and harsh silent sobs that only escaped as little aborted exhales, his dad tried again, voice gentler than before.

 

"Son, it's not gonna be easy-" Pete wrapped his arms around his dad, hands curling into his blazer and knuckles going white as he tried his best not to start crying again. "And- I know it- I know it hurts, _it hurts like hell_ , it feels like- like you're, you're _dying_ , and it's- it's _evil_ , and _dark_ , and _slow_. And- and, some days are gonna be shitty, and some are gonna be good, _but_ -"

Pete sniffed and rubbed his cheek on the shoulder, holding back more sobs as the lump of all the stifled lodged in his throat. "I don't want to pressure you, or- or guilt trip you, but, god-"

Before he knew it, there were hands on the sides of his head, and he was being forced to stare at his dad. Light, determined and firm, yet teetering on broken eyes stared back, and Pete could only sniff helplessly, trying to keep his lip from trembling.

 

"I _cannot_ lose you again. I can't do it again, Pete- so please, please-"

 

Pete gave a pathetic whine that sounded something like ' _dad_ ', and burrowed back into his shoulder. His dad only hugged him tightly again, and Pete's guilt ramped up tenfold; He didn't deserve this, he didn't deserve this amount of understanding, this amount of kindess-

 

"If you're- if you're struggling, if- if it's too much, please- god, please, just _talk_ to me, talk to your _mom_ \- to _both of us_ , but please, don't-" His dad's voice had broken half way through, and soon enough, Pete could tell his dad had joined him in the pit of teary sadness he himself was stuck in.

"I love you _so much_ , Pete. _So much_." Pete could only whine and sob back a desperate, and incoherent string of words that vaguely resembled ' _I love you too dad_ '.

"You are- _You are_ one of the best things that has ever happened to me, Pete." Pete shook his head, throat finally cooperating as he rasped out stuttered words laced with sobs. "No, I-I'm not, I'm the worst, I'm the f-fucking _worst_ -"

"You're not. God- _you're not_." The words were so firm, and Pete was so tired, that he didn't argue back. He only whined and fell a little more boneless, eyes screwed shut and chest tearing in two like pulling stitches.

 

 

 

 

What felt like hours passed, and before Pete knew it, they were sitting in the dim light of pre-sunset, and the room was significantly more quiet than it had been before.

With the tiny grain of strength Pete had mustered, he leaned back and wiped his dry eyes on his sleeve out of habit, before nodding at his dad curtly, eyes brimmed with a stern promise he intended to stick to.

 

"I won't do it again, dad."

 

His dad seemed dry of tears at this point, but he smiled broadly, shakily, and watery as he gulped and nodded, eyes full of a multitude of gratefulness he couldn't quite put across in words.

Pete understood; He'd felt that overwhelming feeling he could never put into words before, and it had always frustrated him to no end.

Now, however, Pete only felt drained. His mind, his body, his spirit- he was just _tired_.

But, despite it all, Pete fell back into his dad with a bone-crushing hug that didn't feel strong enough to his weak arms, but instead of trying to convey the untuned cacophony roaring in his head in trying to crush bones, Pete only sighed and nodded, speaking in the weakest, most exhausted voice that had ever left his vocal chords.

 

"I promise."

 

His dad fell silent for a few moments, but soon after, his hand moved to the back of Pete's head, and the boy couldn't have felt more relieved.

 

 

" _Thank you_."

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nattraven or Hel?


	15. Climb On Up Out Of Your Grave, With The Bits Of You You Managed To Save

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am just, abusing, Brand New lyrics for these chapter titles.

 

Pete had never really needed an alarm clock, now that he considered it.

 

His biological clock was pretty good on its own; He'd usually wake up just in time to prepare for school, or whatever was pressing him to actually get up- or, shit, no, not really school anymore, huh?

 

Pete sat at a solid age of 22 at this point, and despite the 18-year-old face, there was nothing else about him that young.

 

He'd graduated the year Patrick died. Despite it all, he'd actually managed to pass- a good few years late, but still.

Pete had always wondered if the teachers had just taken pity on him. Well, he supposed it didn't matter really; If they _had_ , then he'd graduated scot-free. Better for him than for them, in the end.  
  
If, for some reason, his own brain failed to wake him up in time, his mom or dad would be at the door, knocking like the handy second resorts they were.

 

 

That morning, his mom saved him from oversleeping with a swift knock at the door, and at the light thudding, Pete was sent sprawling and grunting in confusion.

He sat up like a shot, eyes still half-closed, jaw hanging, and brain lagging behind the times.

 

"Sweetheart, it's time to get up."

 

'Time to get up', yeah. There wasn't actually anything to do, believe it or not. No school, no college, no job- nothing to do, and Pete had nothing but free time to do as he pleased.

 

Or, well, _not_ to do as he pleased, rather.

 

Pete would have _pleased_ to stay in bed all day. To just lie there in silence, to escape from the world a little.

 

His parents had let him get away with that once.

 

Only once, though. Seeing as the first time hadn't been great.

 

Pete had spent a day laying-in, and as soon as he realized he wanted to continue for as long as possible, he'd decided to take the most logical step: Barricade the door.

Imagining himself to be one of those angry guys from Les Miserables, Pete had stacked everything from his dresser to his lamp behind the door, only keeping his bass, amp, and bedside table close.

 

He spent a week playing, sleeping, and existing somewhere between sleep and sanity, but, his parents hadn't been best pleased.

 

They'd panicked, of course. They'd assumed he'd gone back on his promise or something, and in the end, Pete had woken up to a few sirens outside.

Not really wanting to deconstruct his structure, he'd climbed onto the roof and down to the door, assuring his parents that he was indeed alive, that he hadn't killed himself and had no intention to, and that he'd just wanted rest.

 

Since then, they made him get up. Every morning. For no reason.

 

Pete loved them, and he understood why, but it didn't stop the coil of slight resentment twisting in his stomach.

 

It made him guilty. Guiltier than anything.

 

Pete could only mumble out an incoherent reply as he practically crawled towards his dresser, hardly registering the quiet laugh behind the door, and the footsteps as his mom moved away.

Folding clothes had never been a huge priority for Pete, and, that had only become more true in the past two years; His energy was drained most of the time, he was tired as shit, but somehow, his friends and his family still put up with his dopey bullshit.

 

If he ever got out of the exhausted slump, he'd make sure to repay them.

 

Pete's hair was still stood on end as he finally left his room, creeping out like a hermit who had just left his cave after ten, lonesome years.

Hand on the banister as he soldiered downstairs, Pete grunted a little at the pale patch he'd forgotten to cover; Just between his first two knuckles, in that fleshy place that hurt like shit to cut. Pete knew. From experience.

  
Not really wanting to make the journey back to the bathroom, Pete only sighed and did his best to smear the quick-drying cover onto the pale skin, hoping the thin layer was enough to go unnoticed.

Since Pete couldn't really eat breakfast, and the few times he'd tried ended up with a day retching into a toilet bowl, he only stopped at the kitchen to nod and bid farewell to his family.

 

Mom, dad, and Hillary- sixteen years old and just as friendly as she'd been before...yeah.

That was a silver lining around the whole shitfest, he supposed; His little sister loved him again, or- more like, wasn't constantly scowling at him.

Andrew, however, was long gone. He was twenty years old now, and it showed; It still unnerved Pete every time he saw him. The beginnings of stubble, the more mature look to his face, the lack of baby fat around his cheeks- his little brother looked older than he did, and he was really shaping up to be an actual _man_.

 

They looked well-rested, happier than they'd been in a while, at least, that's how Pete saw them; Who really knows what's going on in people's heads, right?

 

No, no- that was just _negative_ ; They looked happy, and bright, and there was nothing dark behind their eyes. Just because that's all there was in Pete's, didn't mean everyone else wasn't doing good.

 

"Have a good day!"- was all Pete really heard as he left the house with a quiet exhale that went through him entirely, puffing up his chest, making his eyes flutter.

 

The walk wasn't too long from his house, and where Pete had once taken the long, scenic route, he'd found himself taking the roads more often than not recently.

He'd jaywalk too, sometimes. He'd just let himself hop off the sidewalk and balance on the yellow and white paint, playing a dumb little game that had no rules- until a car honked angrily at him, and he'd find himself climbing back onto the sidewalk with a sheepish look about him.

 

Pete was far less adventurous than he had been once. Less confident, less excited, less extroverted.

 

Where once, he would've been drinking, going out to parties, and staying in a police holding cell until sunrise- or until his parents got the call and had to come bail him out, Pete was… _different_ , now.

 

Sure, in more ways than one, but truth was, Pete could hardly stand it all anymore.

 

Everything was so bland, so dull. All the things he couldn't do anymore had really started jutting out like jagged rocks, pestering him like flies that buzzed in his head and wouldn't leave him the fuck alone.

Everything from eating disgustingly greasy pizza with his friends, to feeling so tired he'd fall asleep where he stood, to feeling all those little human aches and pains- it was all too obvious now.

 

Brendon didn't have as much trouble, Pete was pretty sure about that.

 

No, if anything, Brendon did everything he still could and didn't give a fuck about the consequences.

He'd down a pint of beer, he'd stuff his face with nachos, he'd play the knife game and stab himself in the hand on accident- and, a few hours later, when he was throwing it all up behind his house, or when he was stitching the not-healing gash in his hand, he'd still be grinning.

 

Pete didn't understand it one bit, but good for him, he supposed.

 

He was glad some people were actually reveling in their second chances, but to Pete...no, everything was just grey now.

 

Well, perhaps not literally, but- everything was dimmer in Pete's eyes. Everything seemed less exciting, less optimistic, and in truth, Pete was struggling. He was struggling a lot.

And as much as he would've liked to drive a knife into some fatal place, or go stand on railway tracks and wait for the train to come- he couldn't.

 

He'd promised his dad, and later, when he'd talked to his mom- and then both of them together, he'd promised it again, three times, all in all.

 

Pete couldn't do it to them again. And- and even if he somehow miraculously faked his own death, it wouldn't do him much good, right?

They'd still grieve, they'd still be destroyed, they'd still fall back into those dark holes they'd only just escaped from.

 

And that was enough to make Pete want to keep living.

 

It wasn't fun anymore, it wasn't easy anymore, but if it kept the smiles on his mom and dad's faces- if it kept the grins on Andrew and Hillary's...he'd stay.

 

Pete glanced up at the sky, finding it blue and bright and happy. It made him grunt quietly as his gaze dropped to a more bearable sight of sidewalk concrete, and in no time at all, Pete found himself kicking at stones and setting his sights on what he was supposed to do today.

 

Joe and Andy were still around. That was a major positive.

 

Pete had really expected them to leave, to get on with their lives. Hell, he didn't blame them, and shit, he'd even _encouraged_ it, even knowing how pathetic and empty his life would be without them, he'd wanted to them to _go_. Get out of this shitty town and go do something great.

 

But, as Pete had come to expect, Joe and Andy were too damn loyal for their own damn goods.

 

They'd taken courses at community college, and they'd spend more time studying at home, at the library- or just, plain off of campus, rather than going to board somewhere.

 

Their reasoning had been simple: ' _We're going to Chicago, Pete. Whenever you're ready_ '.

 

Once again, they were too loyal for their own goods.

They had insisted on waiting. Waiting until Pete finally grew up and stopped acting so fucking selfish and-

 

Pete knew they'd win at some point.

 

Their persistence, and Pete's exhaustion- all of it would culminate in Pete finally cracking, in Pete accepting with a smile and a nod that were a little too forced. And that day was coming soon, Pete could feel it in his bones.

 

With a dip of his head, Pete sighed to himself, eyes fluttering as he stopped in his tracks, halting with a patter as he realized the route he'd been taking.

 

School. Pete scoffed at himself and shook his head, turning on his heel, before only rubbing his hands over his face helplessly.

 

There was nothing to do. Nowhere to go.  
  
Andy and Joe were still living here, but they were at college, and besides, Pete hated dragging them away from their work to hang out with his depressed ass.

 

With a sigh, Pete dragged his hands down his face, before freezing, as his gaze found something that made him sigh in a defeated way.

 

The graveyard, sat on the highest hill.

 

Pete could see a few of the closer, taller stone angels over the distance and the fence, and with an almost robotic move, and practically automatic steps, Pete moved forwards, being pulled towards it like a magnet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

No barbed wire laced around the fence anymore. No, instead, the gates had been cleaned and fixed after years of peace, and Pete managed to step through with no major issue.

 

Pete knew this route too well by now, he'd walked it every day for two years, three months, and eight days.

 

He trudged over the grass, completely blanking the gravestone that read his own name in favor of heading over towards the tree at the furthest corner.

 

There were around five headstones shielded by the leaves, but just below it, sitting at its roots, was the headstone he'd sat with for hours on end.

  
Wordlessly, Pete slid down onto the grass, crossing his legs and sitting face-to-face with the harsh stone that showed none of the softness the body beneath it held.

 

_In Loving Memory of_

_Patrick Martin Vaughn Stump_

_1984 – 1999_

_Aged 18 years_

_A beloved son_

_Rest in peace_

 

Patrick wasn't a hard slab of stone. He wasn't vague, engraved words. Patrick deserved more. Nobody who lay eyes on it would know just how good he was. Just how amazing, and talented, and feisty, and smart, and-

 

Pete cleared his throat, eyes prickling despite him knowing he couldn't shed a single tear.

 

He glanced back up at the rock, and quickly reached into his pocket, hand curling around the smooth, car-crash chipped one that sat there.

Pete's eyes drifted over the flowers at the foot of the headstone. White, and wrapped in paper and string, Pete had brought them yesterday- they didn't need replacing, at least, not yet.

 

Pete only stared at the stone once more, eyes almost glazing over as he stared at the name, but, in a move of contradiction, his free hand splayed over the bumped grass beneath it.

His fingers gripped into the dirt as his jaw clenched and as his stomach writhed, but in the end, all Pete could do was inhale shakily, and stare.

 

It felt like hours, and the sun had definitely moved by the time he managed to speak in a strained, and whisper of a voice. "I miss you."

His only answer was the wind breezing, slightly shifting his hair and running a slight, instinctual but unneeded shiver through his spine.

Pete felt the ghost of goosebumps stand on his skin, before he shifting closer to the stone and stared at the name intently. He couldn't think of anything to say. It all felt cheesy, gamey, and besides, he was half-sure Patrick knew everything already.

 

The sun shifted a little more, and as the shadow of the leaves moved off of him, leaving the dim light attacking him in full, a careful voice cleared its throat behind him.

 

Pete turned in an instant, hand sailing out behind him to lean back and glance over his shoulder, upper body twisting at the waist as he met-

 

Brendon.

 

Pete tried not to sigh.

 

Since Patrick's death, Brendon had stepped up to be the smiling face they occasionally needed. And yet, every time Pete looked at him, every time Brendon unknowingly took what would've been Patrick's place...he just wanted to throw up.

 

Brendon was a good guy, he really was. He could sing too, he was good at it- instruments were his forte, too. And yet, he'd refused all offers of tagging along to Chicago.

He knew the history it held, he knew he'd be replacing Patrick, and Pete wished he could thank him a billion times.

 

Brendon smiled at him amicably, the brightness in it trying to distract from where they were, and who's grave they were by. "You good, Pete?"

 

Pete nodded quickly, "Yeah, thanks, Brendon." The other dead boy smiled and stuck his hands into his pockets idly. "Do you...do you _need_ , anything?"

Pete held back the instant shrug and shake of his head that burst forwards, and furrowed his brow at Brendon with a slow nod. "Yeah, actually."

 

There _was_ something Brendon could help out with, now that he thought about it.

 

The groundskeeper- 'Morris' as people liked to call him, had a penchant for chasing him out of the graveyard when the sun started going down, but it could be avoided with enough of a distraction.

A five minute chat about town gossip would be enough to stave him off for the night, and since Pete was in no frame of mind to care, and since he had no idea about what was going on- seeing as he didn't talk to many people- Brendon could help him out, he was sure of it.

  
Brendon loved speaking, anyhow.

  
"Can you...y'know, _Morris_." Brendon nodded instantly and enthusiastically, and as he moved to leave with the nod still reeling over his head, Pete spoke again, a burst of afterthought.

 

"And- can you tell my parents I'm here?" Pete shrugged lightly, head shaking a little sheepishly. "I just- I don't want them to worry."

 

Brendon stopped and smiled kindly, leaning down to clap a hand on Pete's shoulder and nod his respects to Patrick. "Sure buddy."

He straightened up once more, hands in his pockets as he started moving towards the church and the small buildings that flanked it. "See you tomorrow, dude."

 

Pete's smile was watery and shaky, and his nod was even weaker. "See you tomorrow, Brendon."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pete wasn't sure when he'd fell asleep, but when his eyes fluttered open, he had a mouthful of grass and dirt.

Spitting and dragging his sleeve of his tongue with a grimace, Pete cleared his throat as he looked around with a bewildered look on his face.

 

It was dark, ridiculously so.

 

The marble angels and the stone graves almost glowed in the dim light, and as Pete glanced towards the tree, he felt a shiver run down his spine.

Its branches were long and spindly, like dried spiders' legs as the leaves resembled clots of blood; Dark and uneven, all rough and scratchy in the nighttime.

 

Pete looked the other way, eyes finding the fences.

 

He could just about see the glows from a few streetlights, but they were mostly hidden and disrupted by the bumps and the gates.

Pete chewed on the inside of his cheek, a sudden paranoia flooding him as he glanced around nervously, stomach feeling as though it was caught in a vice.

Being out this late wasn't safe, but- but maybe, if Pete ran fast enough he'd-

 

He nodded curtly to himself, eyes narrowing in determination as he leapt to his feet with another hard nod.

 

It'd be fine. He just had to get home, he'd be totally fine.

 

As Pete's hands moved into his pockets, his heart almost restarted at the feeling of-

 

The rock was gone.

 

Pete's eyes shot comically wide as he inhaled sharply, a sudden fervor overtaking him as he rooted around in every pocket he had desperately.

No, no- he couldn't lose it, he couldn't lose- Pete choked back a pathetic sob, jaw screwing and writhing as he glared around trying to find it with a certain desperation.

 

It was all he had left of Patrick.

 

The fucking universe- fate couldn't be this fucking cruel, he couldn't-

 

And then, almost as though it was lit up like a beacon, Pete saw it.

 

Nestled in the grass, just over the bump under the headstone.

With a shaky sigh, Pete leant down to snatch up the stone as though it were the most precious gem in the world. To him, it kinda _was_ , anyway.

 

Pete ran it through his fingers with a sigh. He couldn't believe he'd been that careless- fuck, what if he'd lost it-

 

He shook his head sternly.

 

No, no- it was okay. He'd found it, he hadn't lost it- but that being said, he made a note to be more careful in future-

 

 

Rustling.

 

 

Pete heard rustling.

 

His brow dropped furrowed, and at an instinct, he glanced upwards first, assuming it had been the leaves, but-

 

They were still.

 

Huh. Weird.

 

It came again, but- shit-

 

Pete's head dropped and his eyes found the grass in an instant.

 

It was moving.

 

Something froze him over, tethering him in place and not letting him go as he watched with wide eyes, a parted mouth, and nothing but desperation slowly drowning his chest.

 

The grass was pulsing, ripping, and- it looked like, like somebody was pushing it, or-

 

Pete froze even further.

 

There was...there was no way, right?

 

Something made Pete drop to his knees, and before he knew it, he was tugging the grass up with his bare hands.

His fingers worked hard and desperately, and even though his mind was screaming at him- he was stupid, what the fuck was he doing, he was ruining the grass, he was fucking up his hands- Pete couldn't stop.

His mind was numb, his fingers number, and Pete hardly registered the faint blots of pain as he dug his digits in, pulling up chunks of plastered dirt, shoving away roots, until-

 

Wood. But, it was- splintered, and rotten, and there was a hole. It was collapsed and broken, and, before Pete knew it, he saw something that only made him freeze again.

 

 

A hand.

 

 

Paler than anything he'd ever seen, practically glowing in the darkness of the hole and under the night sky.

 

It's movements were stiff and jerky as its fingers squeezed through the splinters, not flinching or retracting as a few wooden spikes drove marks into the skin.

 

Like something out of a horror movie, the hand rose, stretching and splaying its fingers out at the air, just ahead of Pete's face. It twitched like it was being shocked, it looked like some sadistic cold war experiment, and Pete couldn't trust his own eyes anymore.

 

He was hallucinating.

 

He had to be.

 

Frozen and numb, Pete's eyes fell to the hole again, vocal chords finally powering through the shock.

 

 

 

"Patrick?"

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sea or the mountains?


	16. Could Never Be Heaven Without You

 

"I- I don't understand- I was a _good person_ , I- I wasn't- god, I shouldn't be here-"

 

"You're here. You can't have been that good."

 

"I'll have you know-"

Patrick slumped down in his seat with a quiet sigh, rubbing his temples with a hand as he let his eyes fall shut.

He was _not_ in the mood to watch this goddamn argument break out again, he'd seen it too many times before.

 

"-sure you never cheated on your _wife_ -"

 

"You _shut your mouth_ before-"

 

"ALRIGHT."

 

Patrick's- along with everyone else's, eyes shot up towards the living counselor that had raised her voice in a spike.

She looked tense and silent as she leaned forwards, glaring around at the few that had been arguing. There were only a few more seconds of firm stares, before she settled back into her seat with a clearing cough in her throat.

"Well, now that everyone's calmed down." She gave the two scowling, pale rivals a stern look that almost _dared_ them to start arguing once more. They held their silence, and her face split into a polite, sickly-kindly smile. "We should discuss…" The counselor squinted down at her clipboard for a mere moment, before her head bobbed back up, and a grin came with it.

 

"Going _home_."

 

There was an uncomfortable shift that rippled over the room like a really awkward Mexican wave, and it took all Patrick had not to just sink his face into his hands and _cringe_.

 

"So, uh-huh, let's start with…you…Michael." The woman smiled and nodded over at a man who had looked particularly shaken for the past two years.

Michael's hair dropped into his face a little as he gaped like a fish out of water, shoulders raising in a shrug that was neither here nor there. His pale eyes were wide, and his fingers twisted into his white hospital shirt obsessively.

 

Patrick really wondered if it was possible to be _that_ surprised for _that long_.

 

"Who are you looking forward to seeing?"

 

Michael's words choked in his throat, and he quickly shrugged and made tiny, non-committal sounds. A few moments of the noises passed, and just as Patrick was about to try jump out the window, Michael actually _spoke_.

 

"M-My dog."

 

Some snickering from a few people sat in the circle made Michael pipe down, and made the counsellor glare with _pure_ _murder_ in her eyes.

 

They quietened down, after a few moments- but it was definitely sped along by the presence of the armed guards, that had taken to glowering at the people that were making their jobs that much harder too.

The kindly counselor took her time, picking different people to give their two cents about who they were excited to see, what they were excited to do.

  
Patrick was excited, more than anything, and yet…he was terrified.

 

"Patrick?"

 

Patrick's head shot up in a second, red-brown hair that had been cut since his death flopping into his eyes as he tried to find the counselor. "Uh- y-yeah?"

 

She smiled, and Patrick held back a groan at the question that was no doubt on the way.

 

"Who are you excited to see?"

 

Pete.

 

That was the first face- the first _name_ , that hit his mind like a truck.

The last time he'd seen him…god, it was two years ago now, and he had _not_ been in the greatest mindset back then.

Pete had made his climb out of the grave easier, and he'd repaid him by staring at him for a good three seconds, before shuffling off to find a non-rotten person to eat.

He was glad, in a way; Y'know, that he hadn't accidentally murdered his boyfriend. But still, god, inside Patrick's mind- he'd been banging on the cage bars, screaming and trying to reach the controls of a mind that was too broken and distant to reply.

 

But, instead of breaking down and ranting about how much he loved his boyfriend and about how perfect he was for what would be a good five hours, Patrick gave a small smile and shrugged lightly. "My family- My uh- my friends, too."

 

The counselor seemed sated, and she quickly moved on to another pale, cold person, while Patrick was left wallowing in his memories-

 

The bell rang out, harsh, sharp, and pulsing. And before Patrick knew it, they were all standing and pacing outside, being ushered by the armed guards every step of the way.

 

He really hadn't understood what Pete had been going through. He'd tried, of course. He cared about Pete, of course he'd at least _try_ to relate to how he felt but-

 

But it was different now.

 

Patrick finally understood that unease on Pete's face, that bouncing leg, those scrabbling hands- all little ways to distract yourself from the fact that you were _silent_.

No heartbeat, no blood pulsing, no breathing. Everything that was normal, everything you knew, everything that was instinctual from the second you were born- was gone.

 

And it was hard.

 

Patrick found it harder to sleep now- which sucked, because sleep was up there on his list of favourite things.

Between the medication and the silence, Patrick would stay awake most nights, trespassing on old, volatile memories that could emotionally wreck him for the rest of the day.

 

So, as the group moved in a silent huddle, eyes pale and skin paler, all while being watched like criminals- it wasn't the ideal time to reminisce.  
  
But Patrick had never really been one for ideals.

 

Just two and a little more years after the first rising, and a second one had rocked the world once more.

Scientists were relived to discover that there was no development in resistance, and good old Neurotriptyline had done the job.

Patrick had a hole in the back of his neck now; It was the same as the one he'd seen on Pete, and, after _a lot_ of injections, and after _a lot_ of knocks here and there, and Patrick had come to the conclusion, that he could still feel some semblance of pain- scientists be damned.  
  
Patrick glanced towards the roof, throat constricting a little at the balconies lined with soldiers, ready to open fire on them at the first sign of a fight back.  
  
This place was in the middle of nowhere; A huge, abandoned factory that had been turned into some kind of containment jail for PDS sufferers.

It had been left on the sidelines after the first rising. Nobody had expected an encore, exactly, so it had been a real surprise when the dead reappeared from behind the curtain.

 

It coincided too well; The types of people that had come back, the time span, the way it'd happened- and well, while science desperately worked and tried to explain it, people had taken to fumbling with religion, in the meantime.

 

Humanity always needed an explanation. Never happy with what they already knew, and always burning with a hunger for _more_.

 

Those cryptic passages the town pastor had ranted about- what felt like a hundred years ago now, were now being taken as _fact_.

The risen dead were sent back to earth as penance. They'd sinned. Some were too bad for heaven, but too good for hell- and some hadn't repented before going towards the white light.  
Patrick supposed it made sense, in a weird, twisted sense of the word.

 

_He_ definitely hadn't repented before dying; Fuck, he'd barely had time to move before the car had been on him. Crushing him under its weight, ribs splintered and stabbing into his lungs, filling them with blood that reached his mouth and nostrils.

The driver had freaked out, initially trying to flee the scene- and accidentally digging his front wheels into Patrick's thigh and stomach. He still had the goddamn bruises from that bullshit.

 

It'd hurt. It'd hurt like hell. But the worst thing, had been the panic.

 

The desperation to survive, the panic of facing death. The remorse, the regret, the guilt, the fear, the voice in his head that had _screamed_ about what an injustice it was.

He was supposed to go to Chicago, he was supposed to go start a band with Pete, Joe and Andy. He wasn't supposed to die in a car accident at age eighteen, all because he'd been too tired to register his surroundings before trying to cross the street.

 

Patrick sighed heavily when they reached the doors of the large hall; It was packed with doctors and nurses, clad head-to-toe in biohazard suits, whilst they stood over leather strap chairs and metal trays. The sounds of gloves snapping, suits squeaking, and heavy breathing through masks filled the room, as the first doctor glanced up with a firm call.

 

"One by one, please."

 

The first person in the line shuffled forwards; A girl with black eyes, a noticeably broken nose, and a rope burn around her neck. Patrick grimaced lightly, hiding a hiss as the pains struck him in ghosts of empathy; That must've been violent.

 

Patrick watched as she was strapped down, then checked, before finally

 

" _FUCK_ \- _Ah_ -" She froze, features wide and in shock as she trembled, eyes squinting in intensity and no doubt, a _fuckload_ of pain, before she groaned and collapsed forwards.

They had to take a few minutes to wake her up; Cautiously clicking fingers in her ears, repulsed shakes on the shoulder, and finally- she awoke with a kick of her legs that made the medical staff yelp and jolt.

  
The beaten girl shuffled away after a little while, and as more and more people kept shuffling forwards, Patrick could only stand, and wait for his dreaded turn.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick rolled his shoulders deeply, grunting at the sharp pain that fired down from the hole in his neck.

 

This bullshit wasn't fun. Not at all. Patrick had zero idea how Pete- and shit, even _Brendon_ , had dealt with it.

 

He watched the kid in front of him pace away, two boxes he slightly recognized in hand. Oh yeah, this was the part-

 

"Eye colour?"

 

The grey-haired woman smiled up at him kindly, and Patrick could only blink down at the chart and try not to stutter.

 

His eyes drifted towards the blue pictured pupils on instinct, on the basis of what he'd seen in the mirror for eighteen years- until now. Now he only saw white, and two, black pinprick pupils that stood out like sore thumbs.

 

A10...no, no those were fucking _Siberian Husky_ eyes- definitely not-  
  
Patrick gulped nervously at the guard beside him, but the woman only caught his gaze and smiled again. "No rush, dear."

Nodding gratefully, and just about twitching a smile, Patrick ducked his head and set back to finding his goddamn eye colour.

You'd think it'd be easier, but it really wasn't. Most human eyes were so unique, so varied; His had been on the border of blue and green, and ringed with brown that could shift to gold in the right light.  
  
And no, Patrick hadn't sat in front of a mirror for hours and recorded it himself.

 

Pete had informed him on his eye colour, actually.

  
It was a quiet night after not-so-quiet events, and they'd been lying under the covers with linked hands and legs, room flooded with dim light.  
Pete had spent a good few minutes staring at him, before diligently launching into a full, _extremely_ enthusiastic speech that had made him flush red and hit Pete with a pillow.

 

And, just as Patrick resigned himself to picking the least gaudy colour- he saw it.

 

C20. On the border of green and blue, ringed with golden brown. His old eye colour, perfect and drawn out on the laminated paper. Shit, they'd really thought of everything.

 

"C20."

 

The lady passed a box over, clearly labelled and marked, before she pushed the skin colour chart over; Boxes upon boxes, from the palest pink to the darkest brown.

 

It didn't take Patrick long to find it.  
  
His gaze snapped towards the palest of the pale box, and wouldn't you know it, it was _his_.

 

Patrick sighed quietly and smiled, "A1."

 

The woman passed another box over with a smile, and before he knew it, Patrick had paced back to his dorm room, with no fuss from the guards.

  
He was pretty small, and _very_ unassuming, so he tended to stay out of trouble; No one thought him capable of causing trouble, and while unbeknownst to them Patrick could land a nice right hook, they were right- he wasn't gonna start a fucking riot or anything.

 

There were only two other people in the room, already slathered with skin colour and blocked with lenses. They spared him silent nods as he shuffled over to the bathroom, pushing through the door and making sure to properly close it behind him. Just to be on the safe side.

 

Patrick had seen himself the mirror a few times now, but it never fully prepared him for the sight.

  
What stared back at him always made him jump, made the ghost of his dead heart thunder against his shattered ribs- that were only standing and steady, thanks to being cast with titanium. Thanks science. Or, thanks, _doctors_.

 

Patrick wasn't sure who to thank, but he hoped they knew they were smart. And helpful.

 

Small strings of sighs escaped him as he opened the boxes with no real care, before deciding to start with the contacts.

Taking the tiny, round container in a hand, Patrick opened and picked up a lens with the other, before standing on his toes and leaning towards the mirror.

He struggled an eye as wide as it could go, before slowly, and carefully, pressing in the plastic lens.

  
Patrick let out a short bark of a grunt, doubling over as he grimaced and blinked furiously, trying to calm himself down at the foreign feeling of a chunk of plastic in his eye.

Exhaling softly, Patrick opened his eye and his face split into a bright, relieved grin in a mere instant.

 

Okay, one eye down, one to go.

 

The process was quickly repeated, and as Patrick found himself squinting and grunting at himself in the mirror, trying to fix the contact through blurry eyes, his hand scrabbled for the skin cover.

  
It was more complicated, that was for sure.

  
However, after years of watching Pete reapply his cover to the pale blotches he'd forgotten about, Patrick had more or less muddled through. The copied, unsure, feathery strokes were enough to cover him up, and while he was still pale as shit, there was pink under his skin, rather than grey, now.

 

He looked alive, and as Patrick stared at himself in the mirror, he could only let his mind race of its own volition.

 

He was scared to go back, but- but at the same time, he was getting another _chance_ . Sure, maybe he'd been sent back, denied heaven or hell, for being immoral, or for being a liar- but that didn't matter to him.  
  
Patrick was back, and Patrick was _alive_.

 

 

And he was going home. For good.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick thought the clothes he'd been given were a little stereotypical.

 

A shirt, a hoodie, sneakers, and a pair of jeans he couldn't breathe in- or, _couldn't_ , have breathed in, back when he…actually… _breathed_.

  
Patrick bounced his leg nervously, hands tapping out a beat on his mouth as he stared around the room with wide eyes, watching the specks of dust dance around as he waited with a saint's patience.

He tried to ignore the swirling in his stomach that wanted to coax anxiety out of him, but Patrick only furrowed his brow and gritted his teeth, weathering through it with stone cold determination.

 

 

"Patrick?"

 

 

His case worker. Nice guy, and all, but a little too lenient and overworked.

Patrick noticed the dark rings around his eyes as the older man led him outside with a tired smile but without a word.

The case worker opened the door, before he stepped aside with a final smile at Patrick.

 

And then moment he moved away, Patrick saw his parents.

 

But for some fucking reason, his brain decided to focus on the sounds of footsteps against the stone floors rather than his parents, stood in front of him and looking close to break downs.

 

The thing that finally shook him awake was his mom.  
  
Arms tight as she lurched towards him, engulfing him in a bone-crushing hug as she sobbed through the lump in her throat.  
Patrick's eyes were wide, glazed, and disassociated for the longest time, before he blinked oddly, re-taking control of his steering wheel as his mom pulled back.

Her hands were on his cheeks, her eyes were cherry red and tearing, and Patrick could only smile, voice escaping him breathless and quiet.

 

"Hi mom."

 

It only took a sob before she was back in his shoulder, arms trembling and wrapped around him as she mumbled a litany of 'Thank you' and 'My baby' and 'Patrick'.

 

When she finally found the strength to pull away, Patrick's dad took her place in a matter of seconds.

 

His sobs were silent, repressed. Stifled in his chest as he cradled the back of his son's head with a hand, and looped the other around his shoulders. Patrick let his eyes fall shut, and he let his hands weave into his dad's jacket as he tried to think happy thoughts.

  
The only thing that really struck him was that rainy day in Chicago, when Patrick had come home, bruised and battered after a truly awful day at school.

 

Chicago.

 

Patrick wanted to go back there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Patrick-"

"Oh my god- Patrick-"  
  
Megan and Kevin were on him in an instant as he stepped out of the car.

Both of his siblings had been poised at the window, eyes wide and tongues still as they'd waited for their brother to return. They'd taken time off from school to come see him return, and Patrick wasn't sure whether to feel guilty or overjoyed.

 

Their arms were crushing but warm, and Patrick only managed to give dry sobs that sounded more like huffs at this point.

Through ruffled hair, wiped tears, and breathless, bewildered laughs, the family eventually toppled into the house, and as Patrick took a moment to glance around his old house, he smiled, broad and watery.

 

He was home. And fuck, he couldn't have been happier.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick had never been the most athletic guy, but over years of climbing in and out of windows in attempts to sneak in or out, he'd become pretty proficient.

  
As Patrick hopped off of the final window ledge, he dug his heels into the earth for a moment and just...breathed.  
  
He didn't need it, it wasn't doing anything for him, but the smell of soil, winter grass, and leaves was enough to make him grin like an idiot.

 

Patrick knew the route to Pete's house well enough by now.

 

It wasn't far, but the roads were a little dark, and Patrick had to remember- he had to stay mindful of what he was now.  
It wasn't as safe for him to walk around at night, but- but maybe with his hood up, he'd be okay, right?  
  
As Patrick glanced around, eyes trying to catch the shadows he could see in their corners, the road started feeling...longer, somehow.

He squinted ahead, the ghost of his heart hammering in his chest as he found the road; It looked, longer, and- more twisted. Crooked, and distorted, and- Fuck, had things really changed that much? In four years? God, Patrick didn't know but-

 

A hand latched around his arm, violently gripping as he yelped and tried to jerk away.

 

"GET-"

 

Another hand, around his other arm- tight, and bruising, and it- it _hurt_ . Patrick tried to squirm away, head pounding, chest beating, and whole body coiling as his mind _screamed_ at him to get away.

 

More hands. Three- no, five- ten- all around his arms, his neck, his legs-

  
One tugged him back, forcing him to face- it was dark; A dark hood hiding a face, and as much as Patrick tried to claw and fight away- the guy didn't let up.

Another hand shot out, curled into a claw as it dug into his eyes.

  
"AH- FUCK, FUCK-" Patrick's shout ended in a dog-like whimper as he sobbed, eyes _too_ wet, and vision blurred over.

He heard plastic crunch, and his mind shot to his contacts, before-

 

Sleeves, fingers, palms- all swiping at his skin, wiping away the cover and peeling a layer of skin along with it.

Patrick felt boneless, legs trembling, knees shaking, and whole body weak against the gripping hands, and before Patrick knew it, he was being dragged.

  
No matter where he looked, it was all hoods, all dark faces, all shadows- and they were all watching him, fuck, fuck- oh god-

 

Patrick made a noise half way between a grunt and a scream. He kicked out, trying to aim his soles into their shins, but it didn't matter how much he kicked or screamed- they easily overpowered him.

They pulled him along like he weighed a feather, and as both panic, desperation, and fear paralysed Patrick- all he could do was resort to the basic instinct any human being had.

  
Calling for his mom and dad.

  
As pathetic as it was, Patrick was dragged down the street, throat hoarse from screaming and begging for his parents- until, through the blurry eyes and the fighting to get away, Patrick hadn't even realized where they'd pulled him to.

 

It was a hill, and, there was a tree- oh fuck.

  
Patrick's face dropped, eyes wide and blank as fear paralysed him, wholly and truly. He could only give gasped, sobbed whimpers, and he could only fire weak, trembling fists as they pulled rope around his neck.

The swift sound of friction rang out, and before Patrick's knew it, the rope- which was now feeling a lot like a noose, was tight around his neck.

His breathing sped up needlessly, an old reflex.

 

They dragged him towards the tree by the rope, and by now, the noose was choking off all noise he could hope to make.

 

A few hands twisted around his arms, keeping him still as Patrick craned his neck to see-

 

"Agh- ah-" Patrick choked on his breath as his feet left the ground, the only thing holding him up being the noose. The redhead tried moving his legs, but they wouldn't respond; They only trembled in the air as he froze.

Eyes wide, mouth wider, and dying sounds leaving his lips as he choked on the rope.

 

This was it? This- fuck, this was how he went out? Really- not- A day, he'd been back for a _fucking day_ , this wasn't fair- oh god, he hadn't even seen Pet-

 

The rope tugged, jolting him violently in an effort to check its strength. It held fast, curling around the tree branch like a lover as Patrick swung helplessly, just under a meter from the ground.

 

Patrick still couldn't see their faces, even as his hands scrabbled at the rope, trying to pull it away and save himself- all he could see were shadows under the hoods.

 

Panting a little, and holding the rope just far enough from his throat, Patrick managed to gasp a single word out.

  
"P-Ple-ase-" He collapsed into panting and gasping again, before clenching his eyes shut and trying again, urging his voice louder and stronger. "Please- just- let me g- _o_ , ah - _agh_ \- ple- _ase_ -"

 

 

 

 

 

"Patrick?"

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick's eyes shot open in a second, hand leaping to his neck as he jolted up with a violent cough.

 

"Whoa, whoa- Patrick, dude-"

 

Pete- _ohthankfuckinggod_ \- Pete-

  
"Hey, calm down dude." Pete's smile was soft and concerned as Patrick wordlessly grabbed at his shoulder, hand desperate as he panted arduously.  
With soft, comforting nothings, Pete looped his arm around Patrick's shoulders, pulling him close and letting him lay against a cold, sweater-clad chest.

Patrick inhaled and exhaled deeply, burying his face and fists in the fabric; Pete's sweater still smelled like detergent, but far off in the distance, there was that scent of coffee and worn linen that had clung to him since the start of high school.

 

Pete's hand soothed over his back, and his words were low, quiet, and unquestioning. Patrick appreciated that. He really couldn't handle recounting a nightmare right now.

 

Patrick felt Pete place a kiss on his hair, before shifting down to his foreheads, until he was peppering his face with the sweet pecks.

The redhead _tried_ keeping a straight face, but before he knew it, he was laughing and leaning into the hands either side of his face.

 

With a hum of triumph, Pete pressed a final kiss to his mouth, before he pulled Patrick down to the mattress with him.

Patrick smiled softly, gazing at his boyfriend with the softest eyes imaginable. In turn, Pete cupped his cheek and ran a thumb over his cheekbone, still managing to keep his eyes centered in the dark light.

When Pete's question came, it came simple, and quiet.

 

"Nightmare?"

 

Patrick nodded quickly, and Pete followed with his own. The redhead sighed and lay a hand over Pete's, smiling softly at the shifting of bass-string roughed hands on his cheek.

 

He was lucky. And more importantly, he was safe.

  
That particular dream was rare, admittedly, but it still terrified Patrick every time it came.

It'd start so real, taking him through the day he went home, and then...well, then it'd turn into a nightmare; He wasn't calling it that for nothing.

 

No, in real life, things had been much less violent. He'd reached Pete's house, he'd climbed up to his window, and Pete had proceeded to have a mental break down.

 

Pete, just as he'd always suspected, somehow seemed to read his mind.

 

"Remember that night when...?"

 

Pete's grin was soft and easy, and Patrick could make it out in the dark perfectly. He could see the crinkles around his eyes, the canines that were a little too long, and as he tried a reply, Patrick moved their linked hands between them, and took the real chance to lace them properly.

 

"Yeah." Patrick's smile quickly spread into a grin, white eyes flicking up to Pete. "You freaked out." Pete huffed with a grin and shifted forwards, throwing an arm around Patrick's waist and nuzzling into his forehead. "For the record, I wasn't freaked out. You just, _surprised_ me."

The redhead giggled into Pete's collarbones, "Uh huh, 'cause people _cry_ when they're, ' _surprised_ '."

Pete leaned back with a badly stifled grin. "Shut up."

 

They both dissolved into easy laughter like powder in water from there, and after it had finally left their lungs, they were left sighing against each other contently.

 

With a groan, and without a warning, Pete rolled onto his back, dragging Patrick with him.  
He pecked the smaller boy on the tip of his nose, before stretching his arms in the fake darkness.  
  
Truth was, it was pretty bright outside. But, when they'd been out buying the things they'd need for the apartment, Pete had _insisted_ on getting blackout curtains. For every room. Joe and Andy had rolled their eyes at first, but when they'd realized that it was easy to sleep in until noon with the damn curtains up- they'd conceded.

 

Pete, being the actual child he was, had also insisted on this dumb, yet…okay, fine, _kinda adorable_ lamp that shot stars everywhere.

His excuse had been- 'Stargazing _inside_ , dude! We never have to leave!' And while, technically, they could've spent the rest of their lives in said bed, Patrick still refused to be _that_ lazy, c'mon.

 

With a sniff, and a move to Pete's side, Patrick rolled onto his back and smiled up at the steadily moving pinpricks on the ceiling.

 

They'd made it to Chicago. They'd really done it.

 

They had a shitty apartment, that occasionally leaked, and that Patrick was 70% sure had a mice infestation.

 

Patrick huffed happily and curled into Pete's side, hand skimming over the ink on his collarbones; It was brighter now, than it had been before.

Before, the black ink had struggled to show up through golden skin, but now, deathly pale skin was no match for it.

It'd let him analyse them carefully. Every stroke, every point, every line- Patrick had spent days just tracing his fingers over them, staring at them carefully and committing them to memory. Pete hadn't argued, he'd just watched Patrick explore with a shit-eating grin.

 

"We did good, right?" Pete's voice was soft and careful, his hand squeezing Patrick's in the darkness as their gazes took precedence on the fake stars.

 

Patrick thought about being a smart ass, but as he glanced over to see Pete- eyes focused, mouth parted and gaze on the ceiling, he refrained.

 

The redhead brought Pete's hand to his lips and grazed it with a smile and a nod. "We did really good."

 

The words seemed to calm Pete down, and his grin was back on his face in a second. Patrick watched Pete stare at the stars; Pete was more interesting to look at, anyhow, but-

 

Patrick's eyes widened, and without word or explanation, he flipped onto his side and reached over to the bedside table, hand fumbling in the drawer.

When Patrick rolled onto his back again, hand curled around something _important he'd almost forgotten about Jesus Christ_ , Pete was expecting him with a quirked eyebrow, and an arm under his head.

 

Ignoring the questioning stare, Patrick sat up with a sheepish smile and passed over the important bundle of paper.

Pete furrowed his brow curiously and cocked his head, but he sat up all the same. As Pete fumbled through the paper and the strings, Patrick felt himself growing more and more anxious with each second.

 

"Uh- well, I mean- you're the one who said you wanted to celebrate- the-"

 

Death day, Pete wanted to celebrate their death days.

 

Patrick understood, he got it; Pete was trying to make light of a bad situation, while using the oldest fucking trope from old, grainy horror movies.

 

And well, Patrick had decided to oblige his boyfriend; Today was the anniversary of his death, it'd been a good decade since he'd died- and he still looked the same, but Patrick had made the effort anyway.

 

Pete froze as the package fell open, revealing a small, grey rock- not unlike the one Pete had gifted to Patrick all those years ago; That stone had made its way back to its owner pretty quickly, but Patrick had wanted to return the favour somehow.

 

Pete grinned up at him, before raising his eyebrows. "Does this mean I'm your penguin mate?" Patrick hated the laugh that escaped him, but he punctured it with a heavy roll of his eyes as he leaned forwards, sliding his mouth with Pete's softly.

The second he pulled back, Pete's grin blossomed once again, but, unlike his bright beam, his _voice_ was gentle and steady. "Thank you, Trick."

 

"You're welcome Pete."

 

Pete took the stone in his hand and examined it for a few seconds, before glancing up at Patrick with a grin that meant trouble oh shit-

 

"PETE- GEt-" The shout ended in a sigh as Pete pulled him back down into the comforters, quickly trapping him with legs and arms, all before thumping his chin down onto Patrick's hair.

 

"...Are you gonna let me go?"

 

Pete hummed with fake thought. "Hmm...Nah. Don't think so."

 

Patrick gave a long suffering smile, but reveled in the fact that Pete couldn't see the grin on his face. "We have shit to do Pete, _c'mon_ -"

 

"No."

 

"Pete- we have a fucking album to-"

 

"Noo."

 

Patrick squirmed in Pete's arms until he was facing the older boy, eyes narrowed and firm into the white ones beside him.

 

"Pete-"

 

"Nope."

  
With a temporarily defeated sigh, Patrick pressed his face into Pete's inked collarbones, all as he felt Pete's fingers graze over the tire-tread bruises on his thigh.

Patrick was happy. Goddammit, he was happy, but despite being able to stay here all damn day- no, all damn _year_...he couldn't.

 

A new determination in his stilled heart, Patrick leaned back from Pete, squirming against the firm arm around his waist. "Pete. We need to go-"

"Patrick, just-" Pete pulled him down with a grin, coaxing one from the smaller boy. "Just look at the fucking stars, dude."

Patrick huffed in amusement, but obliged, letting his eyes scan over the moving pinpricks as his head lay against Pete.

 

There was silence, comfortable, warm, and peaceful.

 

They'd done it. Fuck, this was it. This was gonna be their lives. Forever- it was-

 

"'Til death do us part, buddy."

 

"... _Buddy_?"

 

Pete only snorted a laugh and tightened his arms, nuzzling into Patrick's hair. "Yeah, you're my buddy dude. Penguin buddies for life-"

 

"Jesus Christ-"

 

"C'mon, best frie-"

 

"Pete, I swear."

 

Despite himself, there was a grin on Patrick's face, and Pete's beam had grown so large it was making his whole face scrunch up.

He nudged Patrick's nose with his own, pressing an idle kiss to his brow. "How long, again?"

 

Patrick sighed, but he couldn't help the smile that came with it.  
  
He cupped Pete's cheek with his hand, drawing idly circles over his cheekbone and smiling at the crinkles at the corners of his pale eyes. He reeled off the words in a soft voice, and despite himself, Patrick couldn't even bring himself to roll his eyes.

 

 

 

"'Til death do us part, Pete."

 

"...Well, _again_ , anyway."

 

Patrick could only smile and huff in amusement, shifting closer to Pete and sighing into his shoulder.

 

"Again, Pete."

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL WELL WELL.
> 
> That was threatening, idk why I did that, but hey!! You made it to the end of another weird, sad story, great job!! (A/N: It's like, 2am rn, so, forgive any weird wording, thank.)
> 
> So, I owe you all a huge apology for the angst, but at the same time, I owe you all a huge: Thank you. Like, really, holy shit, thank you so much.  
> Your feedback has been awesome, every kudos, comment, bookmark, hit- all of it means the absolute world to me, and as long as you stand having me around, I'd love to keep writing for you guys.
> 
> Well, since I'm about to die of exhaustion, let me explain briefly, and I'll elaborate on it later: My next story is gonna be very different to this one. It's still Peterick, because guess who's a piece of trash (answer: me), and, no, y'know what? I've been really worried about next fic's plot, but I've seen this trope before- just not in bandom, so, pray for me lol. THAT BEING SAID: I am ridiculously excited to write it, and wow, it's actually gonna be a fun time, not like this sadness-fest.  
> So, if you're interested in a more light, less sad story, stick around, because it's coming soon!! (Probably tomorrow, y'all know what I'm like at this point).
> 
> To conclude, love you all, you're all incredible people, and thank you so much, I really don't deserve you lol- but thank you, I cannot stress that enough.


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